


Fire & Water

by ghostofshe



Series: Fire & Water [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Blood Kink, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Gladiators, Implied/Referenced Torture, LIVE DEATHCLAW FIGHTS, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/pseuds/ghostofshe
Summary: Carried like dust on the wind, a single Legionary touches down in the East. It should've been the end, but he may just have found an opportunity to begin again.





	1. Destination

The air is hot with the smell of blood and the clamor of many bodies throwing themselves loudly against iron railings, screaming at the spectacle below. Dust rises from around the deathclaw's feet as it lunges forward, claws like machetes cleaving through the flesh of a hulking yao guai. The roar of the crowd nearly stifles the one uttered by the beast as it falls, the deathclaw looming over its corpse. Money changes hands and a few people rise from their chairs and depart, shaking their heads as they go.

Xavier leans on the guard rail and watches the deathclaw sniff the ground below, he fishes a piece of mirelurk jerky out from his pouch, tossing it down into the beast's waiting jaws. He takes his seat again and waves his hand at the robot to his left. The crowd turns back towards the arena as the bell chimes - announcing the next match.

The deathclaw howls as the next contender enters, bowing its head low and stamping its feet impatiently as the contestant steps into view of the crowd. It's a solitary man, armed with a machete.   
  
"Thought we had Gunners for the next round," Xavier says, casting a glance towards the robot hovering to his right.

"Sir," the robot drones, "The rest of the Gunner captures are deceased. This is the only survivor from their group."

"Not gonna be much of a match," he sighs.

Eyeing the fighter's ratty leather armor, the strange tatters of red cloth hanging from his narrow shoulders and hips, he feels doubtful that the man is a Gunner himself. Not much doubt about what happened to the others though, as he notices the ruddy streaks across the fighter's pale skin, the spatter obscuring his face. The man gives off an air of being well-hidden, despite standing before nearly fifty spectators, beneath the scrutinizing glare of track lights. The most discernible thing about him is the way he carries himself, with his head held high and his shoulders impressively straight. He moves in slow, measured strides towards the center of the arena. A gait to rival any member of the Brotherhood.

The deathclaw begins to circle the fighter and Xavier looks on curiously. The man doesn't turn his back on the beast, but doesn't move towards it either. People chat among themselves in the stands, their interest not captured by the one-sided match. The deathclaw slams its tail on the ground and charges forward to gore the fighter with its horns, but the man expertly avoids the attack and lashes out at the creature's exposed back with his blade. He presses forward in his chair, watching the fighter stumble as the deathclaw whirls around rapidly, its tail smashing into his knees. Though the fighter recovers quickly, the brief opening is enough for claws to connect with his chest, slicing through the leather armor, blood wetting the broken cement beneath his feet. He dives to the side before the next blow can take his head clean off, and the deathclaw roars angrily.

A few heads finally turn towards the battle. The fighter, crouched low, manages to ram the machete through the side of the beast's ribcage; prompting some startled shouts of approval from those watching. Bleeding profusely, but still standing, the deathclaw rears its head towards the fighter, who, unable to dislodge the weapon from its body, barely manages to retreat in time to avoid the powerful jaws snapping for his throat. Staggering slightly but still on target, it charges for the fighter again. This time he isn't quick enough, and a pair of horns send him flying into the far wall. The fighter, weaponless and half-conscious, seems defeated as the deathclaw looms over his bloodied form.

A few nearby spectators turn their gazes to where Xavier sits as the creature bores down on the man, slashing through the left side of his armor while he curls defensively into himself. Too bad.

He waves his hand at the robot, and the bell goes off again. Medics rush to where the fighter lies, now unconscious, blood pooling beneath him. They administer both Stimpaks and Med-X before dragging him off. Xavier gets to his feet and watches the sedated deathclaw being hauled away, concerned. He hopes the deathclaw lives.


	2. Formalities

The moon is already up and the last glowing remnants of sun have dimmed from the horizon before Xavier makes his way to the back staircase of the arena. Stretching his arms over his head and mentally going over the list of tomorrow’s tasks. Wiring in his quarters has to be fixed, he should also head into town for some chems, and no doubt he’ll have to see to those dead Gunners...

Xavier heads to the vet clinic first, hoping to hear good news on the status of his deathclaw, but one of the interns promptly shoos him away and tells him they’re still in surgery to remove the machete. So instead he lingers outside for a moment and lights up a cigarette, watching some mutts chase a large rat across the small patch of grass between the vet clinic and the stable. He flicks ashes on the ground and paces around to the back of the building, eyeing up the rolls of fencing and the boxes lying about, serving as a reminder that tomorrow he also has to patch up the animal pens in the stable if he can manage to find the time.

He settles down onto a nearby crate, savouring the relaxing surge of nicotine through his chest, tipping his head back to exhale a narrow plume of smoke towards the sky. The cigarette is dry as a bone, scratching his throat and raking at his lungs with each drag, but it serves its purpose all the same. Still, not for the first time, he thinks about how nice it would be to grow some fresh tobacco, if he ever found any seeds. Wastelanders may be fine with scavenging ancient cartons from various ruins, but he still remembers the flavour of tobacco that hasn't been stale for hundreds of years, and misses it sorely. There’s more than a few things he misses that he’d grow for himself if he just had something more to plant than bruised tatos and half-rotted mutfruits. He watches the smoke curling upwards from the end of his cigarette, the blue-grey swirls twisting and dancing before dissipating into the air, and sighs heavily.

When he looks up again, he sees one of the dogs waddling towards him, stocky and black and brown, reminiscent of a rottweiler from his day. He smiles and the dog puts its paws up on his legs, drooling over his lap and leaving dirty streaks across the bottom of his leather jacket as it tries to reach the pouch of jerky on his belt, sniffling enthusiastically. Butting out what’s left of his smoke, he reaches into the pouch to retrieve the last few pieces and lets the dog lick them out of his hand.

"Well," he says, rubbing the soft fur behind the dog’s ear, its mouth falls open, grinning up at him. "Guess we could go check on our other contestant now, eh?"

The dog tilts its snout up and licks his hand again, then turns and trots off. Xavier sits another moment and watches it run over and curl up beside one of the rolls of fence, head resting on its muddy paws.

* * *

   
He walks with his hands in his pockets towards the arena clinic, passing the regular clinic on his way there, as well as the Starlight Bar. He smiles at one of the traders he recognizes standing out front and they nod back at him, arms busied with a crate full of bottles. Moonshine, he assumes. A few of the drifters run a distillery behind the bar, and the stuff they make is potent enough that Doc Sarah uses it on the arena patients when chem supplies are running low.

When he enters the clinic, he finds it unusually quiet. The radio beside the counter crackling slightly while  _Crazy He Calls Me_ hums softly over the fizzing of the lights and the muted chatter from outside. Seeing nobody standing at the counter or sitting in the waiting chairs next to it, he heads through the door frame to his left and into the ward.

The ward is all but deserted as well. In the bed nearest the entrance lies the unconscious fighter, lying flat on his back with a sheet thrown across his legs and an IV line running from his hand to the bag of medicine hanging beside him. The rest of the beds are empty and neatly made, lamplight wavering across the dust colored sheets, painting them orange.

"It'll be a little while until he wakes up," Says a voice from behind him. He turns and sees Doctor Sarah sitting in a chair just next to the doorframe, a book in her lap. "Regular dose of Med-X knocked him straight out. Normally I'd have him on his feet recovering in the barracks by now."

"Not too severe then?" He looks back towards the very still form laying on the bed. The man almost seems more dead than alive. So eerily pale and motionless. "Seemed like he took some damage."

Without glancing up from her reading, Sarah waves one hand dismissively towards the fighter. "Deep lacerations, some contusions, but no internal damage. I'd say he was suffering more from malnutrition and dehydration than anything else." She licks her finger and flips the page.

"Mind if I stay and wait?"

"He could be out for a while yet. How 'bout you come back in the morning?"

“Could take a look at those lights,” he says, almost too quickly. “Just, while I’m here.” Sarah looks up at him, then at the ceiling. She shrugs again.

“Ada will send someone tomorrow,” She’s looking back down at her book again. Xavier sticks one of his hands in his pockets and glances at the clock on the far end of the room. The large hand is broken off, but the hour reads 11. Feels so much later than that...

Suddenly, the fighter gasps to life, shuddering and desperately gulping in air. Xavier jumps and reaches into his jacket to withdraw his Deliverer. The man tries to sit upright, but fails and instead curls onto his side, eyes screwed shut, clutching the still-closing wounds across his chest.  The doctor snaps her book shut with a sharp _thwak,_ letting out an exasperated breath as she stands, grabbing a syringe from the medical cart near the bed.

When she reaches the man’s side, he defensively lifts his hand before recoiling as he sees (and no doubt, feels) the IV inserted into it. Sarah reaches for the injection port on the line and with his good hand the fighter grabs her wrist.

“I’m just going to give you something for your pain,” she says, gently removing his hand from her. “It won’t hurt.”

The fighter looks up through his still half-lidded eyes. Blinking blearily, he slowly drags his gaze over to where Xavier stands, cautiously eyeing his pistol before looking back down at his own hand and grimacing at the sight of the IV.

“Remove this… thing,” rasps the fighter, his voice dragging over the words. 

Doctor Sarah gestures to the IV line and the bag. “We’re using this to administer fluids,” she explains. “I can take it out if you want, but you’re still pretty dehydrated so I’d recommend waiting-” The fighter starts shaking his head before she can finish, eyes going wide as he claws at the tape holding the needle into his skin. Sarah grabs his good hand and pulls it away, for a moment it looks like he might lash out, but then he simply withdraws, lying back weakly onto the mattress, scowling.

Without another word, Sarah gently removes the IV from his hand. The fighter doesn’t take his eyes off her as she does so, looking on-edge even through his obvious grogginess.

Sarah sets the line aside, and the man opens and closes his hand experimentally. Then, as she turns to retrieve his chart, the fighter scrambles out of the bed. He grabs Sarah’s coat and shoves her out of his way. Diving for the medical cart and quickly retrieving a scalpel from the tray of instruments. Xavier lines up the sight of his pistol.

“Put your fucking gun away, idiot!” Sarah barks at him. Xavier ignores her, maintains his aim.  
  
The fighter glowers at him, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. He holds the scalpel out in front of him and casts a look towards Sarah, standing just out of arm's reach. “Yes,” he says, his damaged voice almost inaudible. “I’d suggest you do as your friend requests."

Xavier snorts, not much of a threat. He opens his mouth to say as much, but the doc speaks first.

“We're not going to hurt you,” she reassures, inching closer to the fighter, casting a meaningful look towards Xavier. “This is a hospital, we’re just trying to help.” She slips her hand into the pocket of her labcoat.  
  
“I have no need of your _help_ ,” the fighter scoffs, tilting his chin up proudly despite the way his stance wavers unsteadily, the scalpel trembling in his hand.

Sarah dives for him and grabs his wrists. He stumbles backwards until his legs hit the bed, collapsing onto it with her elbow pinning his shoulder down as she empties the syringe into his neck. The man struggles weakly for a few moments, keeping his gaze fixed on Xavier until his bloodshot eyes slide shut and he falls limply back against the mattress.

Sarah removes the syringe and tosses it onto the medical cart, then fixes Xavier with an icy look. "If you're going to loiter in my clinic, I'd appreciate you not spooking my patients,” she grumbles. “Be good if you didn't shoot them, either.”

He returns his pistol to the holster against his ribs and smiles apologetically, “Sorry... Just in the habit of it I guess.” The doc shakes her head.

Without exchanging another word, Sarah returns to her book and Xavier seats himself in the chair beside the man’s bed. He looks down at his pip-boy, flipping through his various notes and lists, more to look busy than anything else.

* * *

  
The second time the fighter awakens, he lurches upward in bed, hands grasping the edge of the mattress like he might fall. He glances around quickly, getting a sense of his location before he fixes his grim features on Xavier again, looking wary.

To give him some space, Xavier rises from his chair and paces around to the end of the bed, resting a hand on one of the medical carts. He's about to call for the doc when he notices she's no longer in her chair. Probably slipped off to bed by now. He sets his gaze back on the fighter, who seems to be calmer and in less pain now. No need to fetch the doc then, he thinks. Somewhat relieved.   
  
Part of him wants to inquire about the man’s violent reaction earlier, but he decides against it, wanting to be more tactful than that. It's possible he doesn't remember it anyway, and if that's the case he's not eager to remind him.

Instead, he smiles lightly at the man. "You're pretty lucky," he says jokingly. The fighter smiles in return, mirthless and unpleasant. Xavier waits for him to reply, glancing down at the pile of shining instruments on the cart, the used syringe from earlier still among them. After a few more beats of silence he continues on, "Might've even killed my favourite deathclaw. Too bad you didn't manage to put on a good show."

The fighter snorts, looks away. "That's none of my concern," he says bitterly. His voice is still rough, but the words seem to come easier to him. “I did not ask to be in your arena."

Xavier finds himself struck by the way the man speaks. He can't quite place it, but it's different from how most people talk in the wasteland. Strangely formal. Similar to a pre-war politician, or a lawyer.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, stuttering out for a moment; leaving just the dull blue light from the window and the orange glow of the bedside lantern hovering between them before flickering back on.

Xavier lets out a long breath, pushing aside his other questions in favour of the one he came here to ask. "You were brought in with Gunners, yes?"

"Yes." 

"And,” he pauses for a moment, studying the man’s face carefully as he arranges the question, "did you kill them after we brought you here?"

The fighter sits up a bit more and throws his legs over the edge of the bed. "Of course."

Though he’d expected that was the case, the casualness of the man's confession trips him up. He should ask why, typically, but doesn’t see much point. The Gunners were just prisoners anyway, more than half of them would’ve ended up deathclaw fodder and the rest might’ve made half-decent gladiators if they signed on after their first fight. But the fact the man doesn’t seem proud or even interested in having just killed a dozen trained soldiers leaves Xavier offput. Most people would boast about the fact, himself included.

"And what about you?" The fighter says quietly, getting to his feet and turning to face him with those cold, cold eyes. He's dressed in a spare tank top and grey scrub pants, but holds himself upright like he's both armed and armored.

Xavier blinks, "I'm sorry?

"Would you have killed them?"

"I kill Gunners all the time."

The corner of the fighter's mouth twitches, and Xavier then notices the faded bruising on his bottom lip and right eye. Old wounds. Probably weeks old.

"That isn't what I asked." The fighter says, more quietly now. Rough, strangely-shaped burn scars mar his exposed shoulders and part of his neck, standing in stark contrast to the neatly closed lacerations from the deathclaw running along his forearms and across his collarbone. These other wounds must have had to heal on their own, without stims or stitches. Xavier presses his lips together, looks away.

"Yes," he says, shoulders tensing involuntarily. "I would've."

The man smiles politely, "No matter then."

"No matter." Taking a long breath, he re-adjusts himself, slipping back into his usual role. Like it's an old coat. "I'm Xavier, by the way." He reduces the space between them a couple steps and extends his hand.

The fighter takes it. His are calloused hands, warmer than his otherwise icy exterior would imply. "Vulpes Inculta." He shakes Xavier’s hand firmly, then withdraws a full step and folds his arms behind his back.

Xavier barely manages to stifle a chuckle, disguising it with a small cough into the back of his hand. People in this day and age have some interesting names, to be sure…

"Fancy name," he says evenly, reaching for the flask inside his jacket. He takes two large gulps and returns it to his pocket, not missing how Vulpes watches this action, narrowing his eyes. "So what brings you to Starlight, Vulpes Inculta?"


	3. Pilgrimage

_“What brings you to Starlight, Vulpes Inculta?”_  
  
For a moment, the words catch in Vulpes’ throat. The spectre of some years past closes its hand around his neck, stifling him.  
  
He isn’t sure how much time passes before he manages to speak, loathing the pathetic rasp of his voice as he finally answers.  
  
_“It was the war.”_

* * *

 

_The heat is unbearable._

Even as it dips slowly towards the horizon, the Mojave sun is merciless; baking the cement until he expects every drop of sweat and blood to sizzle and evaporate as it lands. His mouth is dry and his skin is soaked. Others around him have shed their armor, including many of the enemy. It’s nearly impossible to tell who is who anymore. Shrapnel whips from every direction, throwing people several feet and reducing even the remaining armored soldiers to shreds. Victory belongs to no one in such a circumstance.

Vulpes is accustomed to suffering, to war. But not like this. He's never seen the use of old-world weapons on such a massive scale. Pre-war flying machines drop ordinance on friend and foe alike, disconnected from the battlefield, unconcerned with the damage they inflict on those below. Artillery, grenades, and flamethrowers cut through swathes of his men like a machete through dry foliage. It's like a scene from a history book, almost unreal, yet leaping off the page.

He's afraid. They're all afraid.

When they can no longer hold the line, the Legion forces retreat to the Fort to make their final stand. It's their own territory, and for the briefest amount of time he feels relieved just to be off the unforgiving face of the Dam. They close and barricade the gates behind them to buy time from the advancing forces, then set up mines leading up the hill. Inside the camp, they all take a moment to drink from the troughs, like animals, before returning to formation and waiting for the Courier to storm the gate.

He watches as Caesar is torn down just a few metres away. Close enough for Vulpes to feel hot, slick blood on his skin. Close enough for him to watch the light go from his eyes. Close enough he can’t believe the Courier’s buckshot hadn’t shredded him as well.

Instead he’s hauled away in chains, half-conscious and stumbling with a rifle jammed in his back. Denied even the dignity of an honorable death beside his Lord.

Then come the trials. Days upon weeks spent being dragged between a dark, windowless cell and the glaring open runway at McCarran to see judgment passed on his comrades, the Mojave sun burning down on their naked chests as their charges are read before the citizens of New Vegas.

The worst offenders and anyone from the rank of centurion upwards are publicly hanged while the others look on. Always fond of the dramatic, the Courier parrots the same words he had once spoken to her at Nipton.

_“Some are punished. The others made to watch…”_

Severed heads from the massacred at Fortification Hill adorn the gallows, Caesar and Lanius at the forefront - where both the crowd and the condemned can see. And see he does. While the Courier gives her speech, Vulpes stares into the wide, lifeless eyes of Caesar’s head up on that pike and tries to make his peace. Waiting for his turn to be called. His crimes should more than earn him the right to die beside his superiors.

He’s not sure he’ll ever forget the horrible way the rope creaks as it pulls taut. The sickening crunch of broken necks. Even the roar of the crowd and the steady, low pounding of the drum behind the platform is not enough to cancel out these sounds. Nor can the black hoods over their faces, placed there by the Courier herself at the last possible moment, conceal the horrific struggle of those who survive the drop and are left to strangle in mid-air.

She presents it as a humane alternative to crucifixion. Vulpes isn’t so sure.

The rest, those in lower ranks or those who bargained, are granted the choice between leaving Vegas, or staying and working inside the walls.

His stomach twists at the Courier’s cruel smirk as she tells him what will become of his frumentarii, how she intends to repurpose them as agents of her own. It seems that her revenge on him will not play out on the gallows, rather, she enacts it with each visit to his cell, her gloved hand running along the rusted bars while she speaks to him in that lazy, self-satisfied tone.  
  
_"They’re already weak to our dissolute ways, after all…”_

Vulpes doesn’t believe her, cannot imagine her convincing any of his men to turn traitor. He knows them better than that. Alerio, Cato, Gabban... they are his subordinates. They are family. Thinking of them handing Flagstaff over to the Courier makes his chest clench around an imaginary knife.

 _“Don’t you want to know where that leaves you?”_ She asks him, laughter ringing off the concrete walls of his cell. Without hesitation, he tells her to kill him. To shoot him right there from between the bars if she has to, like a lame animal who has outlived its purpose.

 _“Really, Vulpes…”_ she condescends, _“Don’t you know me better than that?”_

It stokes his ego slightly, knowing that she still reserves such uncharacteristic cruelty for him. Nipton was so long ago, but her unwavering hatred proves the immortality of his actions there.

Instead he is sent to the Followers, ordered to help with the building efforts in Freeside. Left performing basic labor for the benefit of junkies and squatters while his Frumentarii are reformed into serving as the Courier’s bloodhounds, helping her hunt down and kill remaining Legion forces. Those of them who remain true to Caesar are exiled to become the hunted.

The Followers give him quarters and even a small wage, but he has no illusions about making a life for himself. Has no illusions about starting over. The Courier stops by periodically, to trade supplies with the doctors and to silently gloat over him under the premise of “checking in.”

Whenever he isn't carrying or stacking something, he lies on his bunk. Arm over his face. Longing for death.

Any time he manages to sleep, he wakes in a sweat. Shivering despite the heat. His stomach heaving as he tries to steady his breath, wrapped in the darkness of his tent. Images of the gallows, vivid and clear like photographs, dance behind his eyes, intertwining with the sounds and sensations left over from the Hoover Dam. At times he wonders if the nightmares alone could manage to stop his heart.

Three months he lasts. Three months before he finally knows. Before he comes to terms with the realization that there will be no surviving it if he continues to live in the shadow of the past.

So, in the dead of night, he dresses himself as one of the doctors and packs what remains of his belongings, most of which was returned to him when he arrived at the Mormon Fort. He still has most of his clothes: his red tunic, his vexillarius helmet, as well as his goggles and binoculars. He regards each item carefully, then puts them into a satchel along with a few stimpaks and bottled water. He does not own enough for anything to be spare, so nothing is left behind.

He sets out. No weapons or armor, much like when he was a recruit on his first scouting mission. The bittersweet familiarity of it clings to him as he slips past the gate and starts off through the ruins, keeping his distance from the road. He cannot go west into NCR territory, so he walks east. Hoping, if nothing else, that he might be granted a peaceful death of exposure in Arizona, his body becoming part of the land that had once belonged to his Lord.

* * *

 

Vulpes can’t remember whether he had yet answered the question or if he’d simply imagined it. So he repeats himself.

“The war,” he says again, blinking through the haze. His heart pounding in his chest so hard it nearly makes his voice rattle.

Xavier clearly tries to hide the reaction, but Vulpes catches the way his eyebrows tip upwards just slightly, the way he stops mid-breath. Apparently ‘the war’ isn’t the sort of answer he’d been expecting. However, to Vulpes’ relief, there is no follow-up question. He takes a breath and tries to steady himself, tries to think of something he can say to distance himself from the topic. 

A slight draft brushes against his skin, he looks up and sees one of the small windows along the top of the wall is ajar, allowing cool nighttime air to spill into the ward, making him shiver.

He looks down at the threadbare garments hanging off his body, suddenly longing for his armor.

“Where are my clothes?” Vulpes runs his hand along the low neckline of the tank top, frowning as he studies the thin, grey fabric. The only possessions he’s had in recent memory have been his tunic, his armor, his gun, and his knife. Without them, it’s almost like he isn’t real. Like he has awoken from a dream to find he no longer exists, that he’s a ghost.

“Probably in the storage room. Do you want some water or something first?” Xavier turns from the cart and stands in his path. Vulpes narrows his eyes.

“That won’t be necessary. All I require is my belongings returned to me, then I’ll be on my way.”

There’s a heavy pause. Xavier fixes him with a look that’s almost remorseful. His eyes are a deep shade of green, like river water, or broc flower leaves. He has a different air around him, something that makes him seem very loudly out of place. Even beneath the thin layer of dirt coating his face, he seems too clean; his coppery skin too smooth and free of weathering. Aside from the prominent scar ghosting along his right brow, he appears almost untouched by the hardship of the wastes. 

 _Vault-dweller,_ part of him thinks, noting the pip-boy on the man's wrist. Hard to envision a vault-dweller choosing to live in a place like this, though. He has heard about the vault somewhere in the Commonwealth that trades with the outside world, however it seems unlikely that the occupants commonly roam the wastes and hoard dangerous animals for fun.

The silence stretches long between them until Vulpes sighs, deciding to state the obvious.“You do not intend to let me leave, do you?”

Xavier breaks eye contact with him, rubs the side of his neck. “That’s not an easy question.” He reaches into his leather jacket to withdraw his silver flask again, taking two long gulps before offering it to Vulpes.

Without really wanting to, he accepts the flask and takes a small sip, shuddering against the burn in the back of his throat as he passes it back. Disgusting. It’s always tactful to accept alcohol when offered, but he can’t seem to grow immune to the acrid taste of it.

“It ought to be an easy question. Am I your prisoner, or am I not?” Failing to bite back the accusation in his tone.

“I don’t generally keep prisoners. Not for too long, anyway…” Xavier rolls his shoulders and takes a long breath. “Normally, the way this would go down is you survive in the arena and I offer you a job. If you accepted, you’d be living in the barracks with the other gladiators and getting a cut of the earnings from all your fights.”

“And what becomes of the people who refuse?”

“I let them go, usually.” He pauses and meets Vulpes’ gaze once again. “If they don’t give us any trouble.”

 _Ah._ “And I’ve given you trouble by killing your Gunners.”

“Gunners aren’t easy or cheap to capture, they’re worth a great deal-”

“-So you’re a slaver, then?” Vulpes is surprised at the force with which he says it. Not that many moons have passed since he too was complicit in such crimes.

Xavier groans, the guilt on his face admission enough for Vulpes.  “I told you…” His voice catches in his throat, stifling whatever practiced response he’s ready to offer.

“You told me you pay your gladiators if they agree to work in your employ. But first you abduct them, correct?”

“I-”

“And after abducting them, you force them to fight your creatures. No doubt many of them die before ever being offered a choice.” Vulpes folds his arms, enjoying the conflict playing out on the other man’s face, the way his brow furrows and his lips press tightly together. If nothing else, his captor seems conscionable enough. “You need not justify yourself to me. I only wish to know what kind of man I am dealing with, not to condemn actions.”

“Calling me a slaver is pretty fucking condemning,” bites Xavier, defensiveness briefly cracking through his polite exterior.

Vulpes smirks and holds his hand up in front of him, examining the bruise from the doctor’s needle, as well as the raw flesh encircling his wrist. In the corner of his vision, he sees Xavier flinch. “I don’t mean to offend,” he curls his fingers inwards, ignoring the stab of pain as he does so, “Slavery just happens to be something with which I am… intimately familiar.”

The words hang in the air for a long moment, and when he looks up again he sees Xavier is still staring at his wounds, eyes trailing across any and all exposed skin. Once more he feels the sudden, intense longing for his clothes.

After a few more beats, Xavier speaks again. “I could- uh, get you another stimpak for your wounds,” the man’s voice sounds somewhat forced, and Vulpes finds himself surprised that his words have affected him to such an extent. “It’ll keep them from scarring.”

Vulpes clears his throat, “Scars are the least of my concerns, as you seem to have noticed,” again his words come with more bite than he had expected. “All I desire are my possessions, I can assure you the pistol and knife aren’t worth their weight in caps-”

“-No --yes-, I mean, of course you can have your stuff-” Xavier interjects, cutting himself off as quickly as he’d started with a forced laugh, “I’m not so destitute that I need to hawk a stranger’s clothes to get by.”

A genuine smile pulls at Vulpes’ lips. This man is so… reactive. Easily moved, easily provoked. It’s oddly pleasant, speaking to someone who responds so colorfully to everything, to find someone who isn’t simply cruel or jaded or indifferent.

“I’ll take a look in the storage room, just gimme a second.” He watches Xavier turn halfway towards the door before stopping short. “If I give you your weapons…” he says without looking back towards Vulpes. He doesn’t finish the thought, doesn’t need to.

“Don’t worry, I don’t intend to cause you anymore _trouble_.”

“Good. Because it’s not me I’m worried about,” Xavier rocks back on his heels and continues towards the door of the ward, his boots clomping loudly against the wooden floorboards.

“I am sure it isn’t.” Vulpes murmurs, almost more to himself.

When he can no longer see Xavier through the doorframe, Vulpes grabs the hem of his threadbare tank top and pulls it up over his head, tossing it lightly onto the bed. He looks down at himself and inspects the wounds across his bare chest and along his upper arms. The gashes from the deathclaw have mostly closed, no longer bleeding or causing pain, but the marks still look red and angry, the valleys of the fresh scars pressing deeply into his skin.

He unties the string on the scrubs and slides them off his hips, laying them onto his bed along with the top. Fresh violet-blue bruises mar his knees and his thighs, and he recalls the force with which the deathclaw’s tail had collided with his legs, chastising himself for not being able to avoid such an attack. In his prime he would have easily been able to dodge it, but his time spent with the Gunners has left him sloppy and out of practice. He’ll have to work on that.

He hears Xavier’s boots on the floor again and turns towards the sound. He’s standing in the doorway, eyes politely averted, with Vulpes’ armor folded in his arms, his knife and 10mm pistol resting atop it. “Here.”

Vulpes strides over to the man, noting how he watches cautiously out of the corner of his eye. His chest swells at the feel of the coarse red cloth beneath his fingertips, some sense of himself returning along with the familiar texture.

Xavier keeps his head turned and avoids making eye contact, and Vulpes takes that as an indication of the man’s intent to stand there while he dresses. Fine by him, he’s never had room for modesty in his life, not during nor after his time in the Legion. Certainly not now.

He returns to the side of his cot and quickly throws his tunic over his head. The thing is hardly even in one piece, despite his best efforts. There’s a rip beneath one of the arms that he’s sewn shut multiple times, first in Arizona with yucca fibre, and twice more with actual string once he got further east.

Struggling through the tenderness of his legs, he manages to work himself into his leather pants, hoping he does not look as pathetic as he feels. He looks at his shredded leather cuirass and decides it cannot be salvaged, and instead removes the spare strips of red cloth that had been holding the clasps together and leaves the rest of it on the bed with his hospital clothes.

After stepping back into his boots and settling his gun and knife into their appropriate places, he gently ties a piece of the red cloth around each of his wrists, covering the unsightliness of the half-healed wounds there. He looks down at himself afterwards, feeling somewhat more complete than he had before.

Xavier clears his throat from the doorway, “So uh, I feel like I should buy you a drink… you know, since I’m kind of keeping you here and all. And, since usually I buy a man a drink before he takes his clothes off in my presence.”

“And for how long am I to be _kept_ , exactly?”

Xavier shrugs and for a moment Vulpes is sure he’s going to brush the question off again. “I’m sure you’d rather get out of here first, then I’ll explain. I promise.”

A fair assumption. Vulpes nods, and gestures for Xavier to proceed. When the man turns his back again, Vulpes almost considers drawing his weapon and shooting him. It’s a tempting thought, one bullet between himself and his freedom. But, his gun would surely attract attention. Not to mention there was a bag over his head when he was brought in, so he has no idea of the town’s layout. Less than ample conditions to make an escape.

Instead, he follows Xavier towards the exit. Better to play along with the wishes of his gracious host a bit longer, wait until the right moment to strike rather than simply the first opportunity. That’s what frumentarii are trained for.

* * *

 

There’s almost no one else wandering the streets when they exit the clinic. The air is damp and the sky is completely dark, devoid of even moonlight. No doubt it’ll be raining by morning.

He walks two steps behind Xavier, memorizing routes and details as they head down the street, neon signs all around them, glowing eerily in the night.

The brightest, most interesting of these signs adorn a huge dark concrete structure, labeling it _Starlight Arena_ in multicoloured lettering. A spattering of star-shaped lights surround the name of the building, and then off to the side there are smaller, equally colorful letters forming other statements, one of which is a prominent advertisement, _Live Deathclaw Fights!_

Despite himself, he finds the lights quite appealing. He’s seen nothing this vivid or colourful since Vegas, and the nostalgia of it makes him feel strangely at home in this alien place.

They continue on, and Vulpes finds himself additionally impressed by the scale and density of the town. The streets are spacious enough, but most of the businesses are relatively close together, and many of what he assumes to be the residences have two or even three floors to them. Though some of the constructs are quite rough and slapdash-looking, he wonders how long ago this town was founded, how it had managed to grow to such size when everywhere else this far east seems to be struggling.

He also wonders what Xavier’s involvement is in all of it. Certainly by the way he stood atop the arena, like the editor of a coliseum match, it would seem he is at least in charge of the goings-on there. But what else?

They turn a corner and are met with another building and more neon lights. It appears to be one of the nicer buildings around, besides the arena and a couple of the two-floor buildings. Music thrums through one of the open windows, mingling with the sound of people laughing and chattering. Another tavern, it seems. A more high-end establishment than the one residing near the clinic.

Xavier pulls the door open and holds it for Vulpes, “After you.”

Vulpes steps into the building and another wave of nostalgia washes over him as he looks around the place. The far wall is lined with a handful of slot machines, and in the far corner is a large table where a group of reasonably-dressed folk seem to be playing cards. The dark wooden floors are almost completely hidden beneath well-maintained crimson rugs, and the walls adorned with paintings. Not pre-war, but what appears to be original work.

He tries to keep himself from staring around too much, somewhat overwhelmed at the sights and sounds. The music playing is unfamiliar to him, more rhythmic than what he’s accustomed to, but pleasant nonetheless.

Xavier claps a hand onto his shoulder and he flinches slightly. “What do you think? Decent place right?”

“It is. Quite interesting.”

“We can go upstairs if it’s too busy down here,”

People mostly remain chatting to one another, or focused on their drinks, but as a couple sets of eyes turn towards the two of them, Vulpes finds himself feeling conspicuous, suddenly desiring to be unseen. “I think that would be best.”

With a nod, Xavier guides him to the staircase towards the back of the room and leads Vulpes up.

The upper lounge is smaller than the main floor, with only a few couches and a dartboard on the wall facing the top of the stairs. The far-left wall is a series of doors, the nearest of which Xavier heads towards, pushing it open, letting Vulpes follow him inside as he hits the lightswitch.

He shuts the door behind him and looks around the room. It’s a moderately sized apartment, with a couch and a cabinet stacked with bottles nearest the door, a metal desk, and a large bed off in the far corner.

Xavier gestures towards the sofa, which is the same deep shade of crimson as all the rugs. “Have a seat,” he says, stepping towards the cabinet. “I’ll fix you a drink, what’s your poison?”

Vulpes sinks down onto the couch and rests his hands on his knees, the weight of his fatigue easing slightly. “No preference.”

“Everyone’s got a preference,” says Xavier, opening the cabinet doors and setting a glass on the ledge beneath.

With a sigh, Vulpes goes over the list of alcohols in his mind, trying to think of which might be most agreeable. “Whiskey, then.” He swallows, remembering the biting taste. “With nuka-cola.”

Xavier chuckles lightly, “A classic, good choice.”

He listens to the clinking sounds of bottles until Xavier finally settles onto the opposite end of the couch, handing him his glass before unscrewing the cap of a bottle of beer for himself.

“You’ll have to forgive the lack of ice. I know you’re probably thinking ‘ _what kind of shitty hotel has no ice machine?’_ But I like to think I make up for it by only stocking quality products.”

Vulpes doesn’t reply; the man seems to be making a joke to himself but he’s not sure what the correct response would be. He simply offers a tense smile and raises his glass to the air before taking a sip, pleased to find that the beverage doesn’t taste strong at all. The taste of the nuka-cola more than evens out the slightly metallic taste of the whiskey.

“You’re free to stay here tonight,” says Xavier, before taking a long swig of his beer. “I have other quarters, so you can have the place to yourself.”

“Sounds as if you think you’re doing me a favour,” murmurs Vulpes, staring into his drink, watching the bubbles gathering around the edge of the glass. “But I would happily sleep on the ground if it meant putting distance between myself and this place.” And no doubt he will be, the minute he is left alone in this room there won’t be anything stopping him. Nothing standing between him and freedom but a few hundred yards and some intoxicated townies.

“That bad huh?” Xavier laughs, seeming surprisingly unoffended by the jab. “Guess I can’t blame you, don’t reckon I’d be eager to hang around a place after everybody saw me get my ass kicked--”

Vulpes shoots him an icy glare, keeping eyes locked on him as he takes another sip from his glass. Xavier averts his gaze and takes another swig from his bottle.

“Sorry,” says Xavier, going oddly quiet. “Not just for-- I’m sorry you had to go through that at all. Should’ve stopped the match when I saw it was just gonna be you fighting.”

“It's not important.” He cuts his gaze up towards the ceiling. “I am sure you have a reputation to uphold.”

Xavier snorts, something in his expression souring. “Pretty sure I burned that bridge a while ago,” he sets his beer on the floor and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. He takes one from the pack and sticks it between his lips. “Want one?”

Vulpes shakes his head, and Xavier shrugs and strikes up a match and lights his smoke, leaning his head back as he inhales.

He wants to ask more, but isn’t sure he can without seeming suspicious. Instead he remains silent, wrinkling his nose as Xavier exhales a stream of smoke.

“I was expecting you to attack me by now,” breathes Xavier, his eyes shut and his head resting fully against the back of the sofa. “Glad you didn’t though. I swear, once we get all this shit sorted out tomorrow, you’re free as a bird. Never have to think about this place again.”

Vulpes frowns. So Xavier hadn’t been putting his trust in him when he returned his weapons, he’d simply been confident in his own ability to defend himself.

He would have done the same thing.

Vulpes doesn’t say anything more, feeling increasingly tired as they continue on, his senses becoming dull and foggy like a filthy mirror. Strange, he couldn’t have felt more awake just moments ago. But now it’s like he’s fighting himself, struggling not to fall asleep right where he sits. He raises his glass to his lips and finds it empty, then blinks dumbly at it. When did that happen? The glass falls from his hand, his fingers too weak to maintain a grip. It tumbles onto the rug and rolls away.

Confused, disoriented, he struggles to look back over at Xavier, who is still reclined comfortably with his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, one arm up on the back of the couch, cigarette between his fingers. Watching Vulpes out of the corner of his eye,

“Sorry.” Says Xavier again. His voice unusually far away as Vulpes begins to tumble, much like his glass, towards nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhh this is my longest chapter for anything to date! Thanks for reading! Comments are greatly appreciated <33


	4. Conscript

Vulpes wakes to the sound of raindrops against the windowpane, the room around him is cool and bathed in pale yellow light.

He rubs at his eyes, trying to shake the groggy weight off of his shoulders as he sits up. Trying to get a sense of his surroundings. Everything feeling hazy, unfamiliar. His boots are still on, his knife tucked securely into one, his pistol still in its holster, jabbing uncomfortably into his hip. Somehow he neglected to undress before going to bed-

His mind balks. When did he end up in bed? And _whose_ bed? It has been years since he slept on anything but a mouldy sleeping bag, or on the bare ground… 

Shoving the rather soft blanket off of himself, he scrambles up and looks around, clambering for purchase amongst the vast gaps in his reminiscence of the previous night. He remembers leaving the hospital, remembers…  He frowns, stares over at the red sofa, the cabinet-

There’s a stuttering memory there, his mind tripping up for a moment as he tries to seize hold of that fragment. Someone had brought him here. They had talked for awhile… It takes a few beats before he manages to recall the name. Xavier. The arena master. The man who had stood at that cabinet and poured him his drink... 

His drink. 

Something shifts inside his chest. He casts another look towards the sofa on the other end of the room. Sees the drinking glass still laying on the floor on its side.  

And then he remembers.  

White hot fury grasps hold of him as the pieces lock into place. Drugged. Fucking drugged. He’s not sure whether he’s more angry with himself for his lack of caution, or angry with Xavier for being so low. Subduing an already-wounded prisoner with chems, like some kind of raider. The thought leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat, like poison. 

For a moment he thinks of breaking something, smashing the window or pounding the wall until his knuckles break. Instead he clenches his fists at his side, shaking with rage until it hurts every part of him, until his hands scream and his ribs feel as though they’ll collapse inwards, his teeth grinding together with enough force that his skull feels full of daggers.  

Then something else catches his attention. A bottle of water on the nightstand beside him, settled atop a folded piece of paper. He reaches over and snaps the paper up, letting the bottle fall to its side. 

He nearly rips the note as he unfolds it, struggling to read the elaborate handwriting contained within through the unsteadiness of his own hands. 

_Vulpes Inculta,_

_Allow me to offer sincere apologies for last night. Didn’t want you to run off._

_The Sarge will be stopping by in the morning to speak with you. Your fate is in her hands now, so try to make a good impression._  

 _Good luck,_  

 _Xavier_  

Quite the articulate bastard on paper, isn’t he? Vulpes tears the note into two halves and lets them fall to the floor, trying to calm himself. 

 _‘Your fate is in her hands now’_. He scoffs, rolling his neck in agitation. What a cowardly message. A vile attempt to shirk responsibility. Subordinates are supposed to carry out the will of their leaders, not act in their own interests. If Xavier is the leader of this place as Vulpes suspected, then his fate should already have been decided by him, not by someone else.

Even as a frumentarius, left largely to his own devices, Vulpes had not known the liberty of making a choice that was not in direct accordance to the will of his Lord. He was trusted to know what was expected of him, nothing more, nothing less.  

And if Xavier’s will is not enacted by those who work beneath him, then he is no leader at all. Merely a figurehead. A puppet. His life as valueless as those wasted in the arena.

Something about the thought eases Vulpes slightly, unwinds some of the tension from his shoulders. Past years have been a vast ocean of tyrants and people who would call themselves rulers. Perhaps it is better this way, finally wading into shallower waters, able to bring his head to the surface.   
  
At the very least, it should prove advantageous. 

Drawing a long breath, attempting to clear his thoughts and focus on the task at hand, Vulpes goes to check the entrance to the room. He tries the handle and it does not turn. Locked. It appears to be just a plain wooden door, no complex deadbolts or traps, simple enough to escape from. Simpler still if there happens to be something he can use to pick the lock. 

Everything in the apartment seems fairly organized, so he decides it would be reasonable to look around before he kicks the door down and calls attention to himself. He walks back over to the bedside table and checks the drawer, finds a pen and some scrap paper, as well as a well-preserved book. Curious, he retrieves the book and reads the cover. Most it is worn away, but the title still remains, in a faint gold lettering, it reads _World Geography._  

An atlas. Interesting. He flips through it casually, impressed by the exceptional condition it’s in. Not a single page seems to be missing. A rare thing.

Vulpes sets the book aside carefully, then strides over and seats himself at the desk. A more likely place to find lockpicks, one would think. He opens the top drawer and rifles through the waterlogged papers and rusted mentats tins until he sees another bound book, this one quite dog-eared and weathered. Withdrawing it, he eyes the plain leather cover, not seeing a title.

As he browses through it, he’s surprised to find not letters or print, but drawings. Smudged pencil and dark black charcoal, depicting various images. With these, he studies the pages more slowly, intrigued by them. There’s a drawing of a tree, its branches almost completely obscured by leaves. Another of a cat curled up beside a pair of glasses. 

Flipping towards towards the back of a book, Vulpes comes upon a drawing of a fox with a fish in its mouth, standing along the edge of a stream. Small rocks jut up from the water, and lead-grey liquid drips from the fish where the fox’s teeth sink into its flesh. The fox’s fur looks soft, the pencil strokes forming the tail are light and airy, with thicker, heavier lines showing the color distinction of the fox’s dark paws.

It’s quite a pleasing image. 

When he turns the page at last, a small piece of paper falls into his lap. As he picks it up, he’s surprised to find the paper is glossy, the light from the window casting a reflective line across the image.

A photograph.

He sets the book of drawings on the desk, examining the photo. It’s quite faded, the colors muted and dulled, but he still cannot mistake the face printed on it. It’s Xavier. Or, someone who looks exactly like him, at least. Younger, cleaner, dark hair close-cropped to the point of practical nonexistence. Beside him is another man, tall and broad across the chest, his arm slung casually over the Xavier-look-alike’s shoulder. They are both dressed identically, crisp green uniforms with stiff collars, the only difference between their clothing being the cap the other man wears, askew atop his head.  

He turns the photo over. On the back is a messily scribbled inscription, impossible to read save for a name at the bottom -- _Whitney._

Must be some ancestor of his. Some eerily-similar ancestor.

“Not polite to go through people’s things,” comes a voice from behind him. Vulpes jerks around in the chair, looking over his shoulder to see a very tall woman standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard the lock click. 

The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he shoves hastily to his feet, snatching his knife from his boot in the same movement. Something stops him short of attacking, though, as he looks up and down at the woman’s clean fatigues; her well-maintained combat armor, the way her shoulders are thrown back, making her appear even taller than she already is. She practically radiates authority.

“Vulpes Inculta, right?” Asks the woman. Stating it like a centurion, calling the recruits to attention. 

Vulpes nods, standing slightly straighter. This must be the Sergeant mentioned in the note. 

To his surprise, she pays no regard to his weapon as she steps forward and extends her hand to him. He tucks the blade into his waistband and accepts the firm handshake. Hers are calloused hands, thick and coarse like old cardboard.

“I’m the Sergeant, but you can call me Sarge,” she takes a step back and folds her arms behind her.

Vulpes nods again, keeping his eyes fixed downwards, thinking quietly to himself. The woman has a heavy voice, gruff, definitely a smoker. Her face is lined and and weathered, a deep scar running beneath her left eye. She smells like lighter fluid. Possibly a raider, or a reformed raider. 

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” He flicks his eyes up, sees her raising an eyebrow at him. It’s a challenging gesture, and Vulpes finds himself struck by some reflexive urge to either bow or snap to attention. 

“ _Veniae_ -” He starts, but catches himself quickly, remembering where he is. Whom he’s with. “ _Apologies,_ I simply do not wish to speak out of turn.”  

Her eyes narrow, scrutinizing him with slightly more intensity. “Hmph, sure.” She folds her arms over her chest now, leans her weight onto one foot. “Well, I’m gonna cut to the chase with you, Inculta. I want you in my arena.” 

“Was I not already in your arena?” Says Vulpes quietly. A small twinge of discomfort rolls across his chest as he says it, travelling along the fresh marks left by the deathclaw. 

The woman barks a rather loud laugh, one that nearly makes him jump. “That you were, though your little performance there isn’t why I want you to sign on. Seen what you did to those Gunners, that was fine work. Made a real goddamn mess of my barracks.” She sounds genuinely impressed, and Vulpes furrows his brow at the unexpected reaction.  

“It sounded to me like I was slated for punishment, for damaging assets.”  

The Sarge snorts, “That’s what X had you thinking?” 

“Gunners are valuable. Those were his words,” says Vulpes, meeting the Sarge’s amused gaze, half expecting her to pull the rug out from him at any moment.

“What a fuckin’ asshole,” she claps a hand onto Vulpes’ shoulder, giving him a slight jolt. “Sorry ‘bout him. I was already gonna kick his ass for nearly wasting you on that shitty deathclaw match-” she stops and shakes her head. “Good job by the way. Really. I mean, ya got… what’s the word? Well, you got fucked up, basically. But you didn’t die, so that’s pretty good.”

Vulpes blinks, shrugs her hand off. “Thank you?” Unsure of the correct response.  

Sarge reaches into her pocket, withdrawing a small pouch, “And before you answer, I do have some caps here for you up front. I can have a match lined up later today and more caps after if you accept.”

“I don’t need your money,” says Vulpes tersely, eyeing the bag. Charity is the last thing he needs or desires. Failure doesn’t merit payment, and the prospect of accepting such a thing fills him with disgust.

Before he give further voice to his refusal, the door swings open with a burst of cool air. Xavier half-stumbles into the room, rainwater dripping from his hair down over his smiling face. “Morning folks!” He gives the Sergeant a little wave, “You’re looking chipper today, Sab.”

Sarge glares at Xavier, hard as stone. “I’m not through with our meeting yet, X.”

“Finished those repairs early so I thought I’d stop in, wanted to check up on things.”  
  
That same white-hot rage from earlier reignites in Vulpes’ chest as Xavier turns his grin towards him, and he reaches abruptly for his knife. He starts past the Sergeant, making to lunge for the other man before a hand yanks at the back of his tunic and halts him in place.

“Easy there, Inculta,” warns the Sarge. 

“I should kill you right now,” snarls Vulpes, glowering over at the other man. Just the sight of his smug face making him taste copper. “Come to watch your subordinate do your job for you?” 

Xavier wipes the rainwater from his brow, smile not faltering. “Don’t know what you mean.” 

Vulpes tries to tear himself away from the Sarge’s grip, seething.“I’m surprised you didn’t have her drug me for you as well, or is that just the sort of thing you do for fun?”

Sarge clicks her tongue. “Well you sure know how to win ‘em over X.” After a beat, she releases Vulpes from her grip, and he collides with Xavier forcibly enough to shove him to the floor.  

He makes to bury his knife in Xavier’s shoulder, but he’s stopped short. Xavier’s hand snaps upwards and seizes Vulpes’ wrist, halting his attack in-place, scant inches from its intended target. Vulpes grits his teeth and attempts to wrench himself free of the large hand, pressing forward to try and drive the blade home.  

“What the hell, Sarge?” Demands Xavier, shaking with the strain of holding Vulpes off. It is not a brutal grip, yet still it draws a spark of pain as the fabric covering Vulpes’ wrist rubs against his wounded flesh. An unpleasant sensation, one that forces him to adjust his hold on the knife, squirming subtly in the other man’s grasp.  

“Don’t be a wuss, X. You did drug the guy, let him have a couple shots on you.”

Xavier looks up at Vulpes. Those green eyes wide, yet some trace of that crooked grin still on his lips as he eyes Vulpes’ weapon, inching closer to his face. “Aw, c’mon,” he says, voice smoother than it should be. Humored, even. “I was nice, wasn’t I? I tucked you in.”

Curling his free hand into a fist, Vulpes growls down at the man, pushing all of his contempt into one word. “Bastard.” He wrenches his knife free, but tosses it aside and grips the front of the man’s jacket, slamming his fist into his cheek. The impact fills Vulpes with something almost like euphoria, a sudden overwhelming swell of satisfaction as he feels bone connect with flesh and watches Xavier’s head jerk back slightly.

Xavier absorbs the blow without a sound, his expression remaining unchanged despite the now split-lip blooming red. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. His voice is heavy, serious, not coinciding with the look on his face.  

Despite himself, Vulpes believes him. Though it does absolutely nothing to ease his desire to see the man bleed, to wipe that look off his face.

A moment passes between them, before Vulpes brings his fist down again. His knuckles crack painfully against the man’s brow this time, sending a shockwave up his arm. Still no reaction, so he repeats the motion once more, striking the same place even despite the pain in his hand.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough,” declares the Sarge. Her boot nudges at Vulpes ribs. He gives one last, long look at Xavier and then rises, scooping his knife up from the floor and fixing it back inside his boot.  

The Sarge helps Xavier up to his feet, offers him a shred of cloth from her pocket. “Wow, you look like shit.” 

“Thanks,” grunts Xavier, taking the cloth and dabbing at his lip with it. He keeps his eyes averted from Vulpes as he tends to his bloodied lip, and the nearly-sheepish look on his face gives Vulpes another swell of satisfaction.  

Slapping Xavier on the back, the Sarge laughs again. “Chin up, man. I knew you’d be fine.” She gives a sideways glance to Vulpes, though he can tell her words aren’t directed at him. “You know I only choose honorable candidates to be gladiators, after all." 

Xaviers open his mouth to say something else, before pausing. “You guys hear that?” He pulls the cloth away from his lip, already swollen. The flesh around his left eye quickly darkening into a bruise. “Sounds like plasma fire.” 

Everyone pauses, looking towards the window, listening through the pattering of raindrops against the glass. Vulpes almost thinks the man is lying, until he hears it. The roar and swish of a plasma rifle, the zing of a laser rifle. Then the clamber of turret fire.

Another jolt runs through his chest, and Vulpes snatches his gun from its holster. His damaged hand clenching painfully around the grip, trigger-finger poised ready beside the guard.

Gunners.  

* * *

 

Xavier knows the sound of a Gunner attack when he hears one.

It’s not like raiders, where their commotion and scattered fire announce their arrival long in advance. Gunners are different. They are militant, almost pre-war in efficiency and tactics.

They attack in formation, closing in before they start their attack, he usually hears energy fire and the roar of the turrets arriving together, in synchrony.  
  
He fucking hates Gunners.

A strange look has come over Vulpes as well, his eyes going wide and pistol drawn before Xavier even reaches for his. Guess he can count on some extra support in this fight, even despite the fresh ache of his face. The man deals a serious punch, he’ll give him that.  

“Think you can handle this?” He asks Vulpes, almost nervous. Considering what poor shape the man was in last night, and the fact he probably just broke his hand over Xavier’s face, he’s likely not in ideal fighting condition. “Sounds like a lot.”  

“I hope so,” says Vulpes rigidly, and Xavier isn’t fully sure which statement he’s responding to.  

“Alright, with me then. We’ll head over the wall and take them out up close, we’ll have a lot of cover fire with the guards and the turrets.”

Vulpes nods, “I’ll take lead.” There’s a strange intensity in his voice, an icy resoluteness that had been absent even as he raged at Xavier.

“After you then,” Xavier reaches for his Deliverer and nods for Vulpes to proceed. “I’ve got your back.” 

They tear out of the apartment and down the tavern stairs. Once outside, they take off at full speed through the town, hitting the dampened cement of the wall within moments of each other and scrambling quickly over. Vulpes moves ahead and Xavier unsheathes his knife, holding it in his offhand beneath his gun, watching for any enemies behind cover. 

Before he sees anyone, Vulpes fires two shots and a Gunner cries out, the grass rustling as he goes down. _Sharp eyes_. Another appears just behind the first and Xavier takes that one out with a shot to the neck, blinking raindrops out of his eyes.

Then fire erupts around them, and Xavier whirls, seeing five more Gunners firing at them from near the wall, flanking them. He takes out two mercs, recoils as a bullet grazes his arm, a laser beam whizzing just past his head. Vulpes’ next shot drops the one with the assault rifle before Xavier starts in a run towards the last two, the wound in his arm leaving him caught in a whirlwind of adrenaline.

One of the Gunners throws his laser pistol down and produces an officer’s sword from his hip, making towards Xavier as he does so. The other redirects his aim towards Vulpes and Xavier puts two bullets in his chest before taking aim on the one with the sword. 

But the merc is already too close, forcing Xavier to block the incoming sword with his knife. He manages to deflect the attack just inches away from his face, the sound of metal on metal screaming in his ears. Their weapons lock for a moment, both pushing against the other before he breaks free and drives the blade into the merc’s throat.

Shoving his Deliverer back into his holster so he has a free hand, Xavier withdraws a syringe of psycho from his armor and pauses a moment. Looking around until he spots Vulpes, who has put some distance between them and is now firing at another group approaching from the east. Each shot sending another Gunner collapsing into the mud. 

Footsteps scuff the ground to his left and Xavier barely has time to move before a supersledge creates a crater where he’d been standing, the impact shuddering beside his feet. “Shit!” He jams the psycho into his arm and howls as the empty syringe falls to the ground, the drug instantly making his heart pound inside his head, turning every one of his nerve endings into white-hot static.

The Gunner swings the sledge again and Xavier manages to catch it, aided by his newfound chem-strength, his free hand gripping the helve while his other slashes with his knife. It slices through the flesh of the gunner’s weapon arm, but the merc doesn’t recoil. Growling, the Gunner hurls him off the sledge and then winds up for another hit, this time striking Xavier in the chest with enough force that his neck snaps forward from the impact. He hears his bones crack even more than he feels it, the sound reaching ears from the inside.

Coughing hard, his mouth tasting of blood, Xavier dives forward again. Low and towards the man’s stomach, dodging a follow-up strike. He manages to go tackle him to the ground and then brings his knife down into the man’s throat. Arterial spray spatters his face and wells around the hilt of his blade before he withdraws it, producing a wet gurgling sound from the corpse. The impulse barely registers as he repeats the motion, once, twice, the adrenaline moving him like a machine until his shattered ribs scream for him to stop. His breath comes in broken wheezes, whistling like wind through a cracked window.

Still sitting on the bloodied corpse, trying to catch his breath, Xavier reaches into his cargoes for a stimpak and jams it into his arm. Waiting until he feels the air slowly return to his lungs.

He pushes up to his feet, spits blood onto the grass, and then glances around for more hostiles. Ready. Waiting. 

There are no bullets zipping past him now. No laser fire piercing the air. Even the soft patter of the rain seems to have stopped, leaving everything too still, too dead. He casts a hasty look around himself. Tries to listen past the hammering of his heart, but hears nothing.

Xavier sprints over to where he’d last seen Vulpes standing. He sees the empty shell casings gleaming in the grass, loud and gold, creating a trail that he follows as the rest of the world settles away behind his psycho-induced blinders.

The sound of a weapon reloading echoes somewhere in the distance, and his head instantly snaps towards the sound, his legs carrying him towards it. As he rounds some dead brushes, he comes across the sight of Vulpes on the ground, holding a Gunner in a headlock, with another standing behind him, his rifle pressed to the back of Vulpes’ head.  

Xavier blinks and brings his Deliverer back out, taking aim as best he can. Psycho isn’t a drug for precision, but he’s used to working around the unsteadiness, the strange over-contrast of his vision. He breathes in, then out, one eye crushed shut as he squeezes the trigger.

It’s slightly off-target, but still achieves his purpose. The bullet manages to strike the merc in the elbow, his weapon falling from his grip as he cries out. Vulpes quickly snaps the neck of the man in his arms and then shoves the corpse aside, scrambling for the gun on the ground before the other merc can reach for it. Xavier lines up another shot, but Vulpes gets there first, rifle now pointed at the final Gunner’s chest.

He can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but Vulpes’ lips move and the other man opens his mouth to respond before Vulpes rams the barrel of the gun into his stomach, making him hunch forward, arms wrapped around himself. Now the Gunner shouts something, the incoherent sound echoing over the empty hills around them. 

Vulpes turns the gun and slams the stock into the Gunner’s face, sending him to the ground. He then hurls the weapon aside, where it lands somewhere off in the tall grass. Xavier lowers his gun as he watches, confused, wanting to join in but managing to reign in the impulse. Just the chems talking, trying to push him forward even when there’s nowhere left to go.

Standing over the Gunner, it looks as though Vulpes is saying something more. Xavier wants badly to hear, needs stimuli so badly. He chews the inside of his bloodied lip, agitating the wound.

A sort of vicarious thrill goes through him, watching Vulpes bring his foot down on the merc’s chest, then wind back to deliver a severe kick to the man’s ribs. Once. Twice. Thrice. Maybe he shouldn’t be watching this. But he’s too fucking high for propriety. Too high and fired up to care whether or not he’s sick for enjoying the grotesque image laid out before him.  

When Vulpes ceases kicking the man’s ribs in, Xavier is honestly amazed to see the Gunner is still alive and moving. Chest heaving, face bloodied, mouth open and no doubt begging for mercy. Vulpes then steps over the battered form of the Gunner and straddles the man’s chest.

Xavier finally turns his head the opposite way, some small nagging part of his brain telling him that perhaps he’s witnessed enough. He can hear the blows landing as the roar of the psycho recedes just slightly. Can make out the sound of Vulpes’ cold, steel voice between the garbled nonsense of the dying Gunner.

“ _Gratus de hoc misericordiae.”_  

Doesn’t sound like English, but Xavier doesn’t trust his perceptions enough to assume. Auditory hallucinations aren’t common with psycho, but he recalls it happening once or twice to his squadmates… Though if it’s not that, then-

What the fuck.

Xavier casts another look back towards Vulpes just in time to see him slowly dismounting the corpse, eyes still fixed down on the bloodied form. Apparently he hadn’t been fond of that particular Gunner.

The grass rustles in the wind, filling the space between them as Vulpes looks up and sets his sights on Xavier.

Reflexively, Xavier redoubles his grip on his knife as their eyes meet from across the distance. The chems paint everything grainy and bright, the blue of Vulpes’ eyes almost burning him as he watches Vulpes run his tongue through the fresh blood coating his hand. Leaving smears of stark red across pale skin. Licking blood from his fingers the way a fox cleans its paw.

Feels as though they are standing too close, despite being yards apart. Xavier shivers.  

The stillness is broken by the Sergeant's voice, calling over at them, “All clear!” and Xavier looks over his shoulder to see her leaning over the guard tower’s railing, the barrel of her assault rifle still perched on the edge.

When he looks back, Vulpes is walking towards him, moving differently now, purposefully. His knife still still in hand. That post-kill combination of excitement and contentment casting a glow over his angular face. It’s a feeling Xavier knows well, one he’s sharing in.

Vulpes stops in front of him, and Xavier stares unflinchingly, trying to act casual. “Well, that was something,” he says lightly. Trying to keep his volume even, something not particularly easy under the influence.

“You can tell your Sergeant that I will work for her,” says Vulpes, looking down at his knife. His voice sounds different now, easier, steadier. “Provided she can set up a match as soon as possible.”

This is not the same man he met in the hospital and shared drinks with the previous night. Whoever it was that gave his name and shook Xavier’s hand was just a shade, a corpse. Now he seems to have been reanimated, restarted.

Xavier looks back up at the guard tower and nods at the Sarge, “You can tell her yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: gratus de hoc misericordiae - be thankful for this mercy
> 
> Thank you to hotot for the beta-read! I got in such a huge rush to post this I hardly looked over it myself at all... oop. Hopefully the next chapter will be along a bit faster, as I wrote some of it as a piece of this one but it just got too long. (Summer session at uni is hell on my time management, but at least it keeps my inspo-meter cranked up to high)
> 
> And all my love to people who have left comments so far <3 You guys keep me going. Without your words, I'd never get anything written.


	5. Inferno

Sarge has the next match set up almost immediately. Xavier barely has time to pour some water over his head and rinse off the blood before he has to make his way to the arena once again. Still shaking off his high, just as wound-up as he was during the fight.

A feeling which only intensifies as he watches Vulpes step into the arena once again. Still using the same machete he had used on the deathclaw. The crowd springs to life as he strides towards the center of the stadium, practically showing-off as he weighs the weapon in his hand.

Part of him still can’t believe the man agreed to sign on as a gladiator. Usually the Sarge has such an opposite effect on people, she’s never once convinced someone to stay if they weren’t already sold on fighting for money after their first match. And Vulpes seems less interested in money than the dirt beneath his feet.  
  
Plenty interested in fighting, though. Apparently.

Instead of seating himself, Xavier steps over to the rail and leans on the edge, looking down into the crowd. More people out tonight, settled behind railings and wire walls, buying drinks at the bar. A few even climb up onto the roof, to watch unimpeded. Should be a profitable night. He’s bet a hundred caps on Vulpes, this time. Not even a gamble, really, after seeing how he dealt with those Gunners.

He probably would have bet that much anyway, just based off the deathclaw fight. The mere fact that Vulpes survived is enough place him as a man of at least _some_ combat experience. And yet, he still finds himself surprised, having seen how easily Vulpes dispatched those mercs. Surprised, and curious.

Though there’s no way for him to be certain, he initially suspected Vulpes to be one of the Gunners’ bounties. Probably a runaway slave, en-route to wherever it was they had been hired to take him when they were captured by the hunting party. The same thing has happened twice before with Gunner captures. Mercs don’t usually like the hassle of keeping prisoners, but the Gunners are known to make a nice profit off live retrievals, courtesy of local slavers.

But Vulpes fights too well to be a slave. Beyond that, he’s too passionate about it. A slave, or any simple prisoner, would not have done what Vulpes had to that last merc, or been eager for more blood after the fact. Gotta be something else going on, there. Some personalized hatred, some kind of history.

He presses his lips together, troubled by the conflicting bits of information. Maybe he should get in touch with the Railroad, see if they have any intel on new threats in the area. Could be that Vulpes is part of some recently-formed rival gang, encroaching on the Gunners’ territory. If that’s the case, he needs to know more before they become a threat to Starlight as well.

This isn’t something he’s used to dealing with anymore. Uncertainty. Speculation. Wondering and what-ifing. Unlike in the old days, people in the wasteland aren’t prone to hiding things, not without very good reason. Why bother, when even your most intimate details are meaningless in the grand scheme of things? Why bother, when anyone you spill your secrets to could wander out into the wastes and die the very next day.

Maybe for that reason, he can’t help but feel twice as drawn in by this strange man. Everything that he is exists out of sight, tactfully obscured from passing scrutiny. It’s oddly reassuring, meeting someone else with secrets. The reassurance is the first thing he’s felt. Really felt. In months. The days are such a long drag of mist and sleet. Nothing in his mind but a numbing cold and a waterlogged sense of loneliness. Bogging him down. It's hard not to be enticed by anything that helps to break up the monotony. 

With the loud clatter of the cage doors announcing their arrival, four raiders step into the ring. Two are armed with bladed tire irons, one has a power fist, and the other has a shishkebab.

Xavier looks back towards Vulpes, who’s brandishing his weapon in rather exhibitionist fashion. Rotating it in his hand, pretending to admire it as the spectators above him shout and slam their fists down on the guard railings, making the entire arena echo with a sound not unlike drumbeats. Even from here, he can see the intensity radiating off the man, the way he glows beneath the attention of the spectators. Wherever his origins lie, whatever it was that brought him to Starlight; this is what he was made for.

Should be an interesting match.

* * *

 

There is something particularly appealing about the roar of the crowd.

As Vulpes steps into the arena, he can feel the eyes of the spectators upon him, Xavier’s no doubt among them, looming somewhere overhead, just past the corner of his eye. Watching silently as the rest of the crowd’s shouts and whistles rise to a fevered pitch. Like the rushing of a waterfall, the momentum of it sweeping him up, providing added force to the still-clamoring beat of his heart. Enhancing the afterglow from his long-overdue revenge.

Hearing that Gunner cry for mercy was the most pleasurable thing he’s experienced in some years. It felt like… absolution. Like being set free

As his opponents enter the arena, brandishing their variety of weapons, Vulpes feels another rush come over him. Raiders. Even better still. He gives the machete in his hand an experimental twirl, testing the weight, relishing in the familiar feel of it. Like he’s a recruit again, permitted only the simplest of weapons. Ready to prove himself.  
  
The call of the bell sends the raiders rushing towards Vulpes. Circling around him as quickly as they can. Trying to use their numbers to their advantage. Not a bad tactic, but one that will do little to help their chances. He is used to facing superior numbers.

As the first raider makes his move, swinging his bladed tire iron with a grunt of effort, Vulpes feels himself smiling as he leans out of the weapon’s path. The attack is too slow, the arc of the weapon too wide, leaving ample space for him to bury his machete in the man’s chest, the crunch of his sternum and the gurgle of his dying breath offering Vulpes a tremendous swell of satisfaction. The crowd seems to share in this feeling, their elated cries filling his ears as the other three raiders attack together.

The shishkabob's blade swipes along his left forearm. Flames dance along his skin, but the dull blade leaves only a shallow gash for the efforts of its wielder. The other tire-iron wielding raider swings for him and he manages to deflect the attack to the side, the metallic clank of his machete against the bladed iron echoing off the surrounding walls and through the stands.

In a perfect stroke of timing, the deflected weapon lands itself in the skull of the man with the powerfist. Embedding too deeply to be retrieved as the man topples, leaving the first raider weaponless. With a twist of his machete, Vulpes opens the throat of the now-disarmed raider. Blood sprays hot across his face, soaking into the front of his tunic as the man falls to his knees. Vulpes licks his lips.

Three down already.

Backing off slightly, the raider with the shishkabob rolls her neck, sizing him up for a moment before glancing up, past his shoulder. Vulpes follows her gaze, to the viewing area where Xavier stands, leaning on the railing. Even from here he can see that long smirk, can feel the intensity of his gaze upon him.

“Don’t die too quick,” grunts the raider, teeth bared in a vicious grin. “I wanna make this a good show.” The flames from her weapon create flickering shadows that dance along the concrete floor between them.

Vulpes mirrors the expression back at her. “As do I.”

The raider cackles, diving in for another strike, the heat of her weapon burning into Vulpes even as he blocks it, the sound of metal clashing once again rising over the calls of the crowd. Her laughter continues as she draws back and swings for him once again, the smell of singed hair signalling a close call as he ducks to the side. Everything around them is lost to the noise of the crowd as they continue their exchange; Vulpes striking out, being deflected, dodging the rebound.

They dance for what feels like an eternity before he finally is granted the briefest of openings, lashing out with his offhand to shove the raider’s chest, his foot catching behind her ankle, sending her toppling to the ground.

His blood burns inside his veins as he presses the blade of his machete to her neck, licking the inside of his lips, drinking in his victory. The pleasure of it overriding even that of killing of the Gunner.

Vulpes adjusts his grip on the machete, and raises it up with both hands, poised to pierce the raider’s throat. She chuckles weakly up at him, delight shimmering deep in the wells of her bloodshot eyes. He gives her a nod, raises the machete a notch higher, the drumming of the crowd pressing him onwards. Death should be instantaneous.

And then the bell rings, staying his hand once again. He grits his teeth, irritated, and shoots another glance up towards the viewing area, locking eyes with Xavier. When their gazes meet, something shifts loudly, like a bullet being snapped into the chamber. Feels like they’re standing too close, sharing the same thought.

The man gives his head just the slightest shake, and Vulpes can feel his weapon drop.

It’s over.

Whether he wants it to be or not, it’s over.

Somewhat begrudgingly, he steps aside, offers a hand to the raider, who takes it and hauls herself up. Then spits at his feet.

“Next time,” she grunts.

* * *

 

Xavier waits in the contestant cage after the match. His heart still racing, hammering against his ribs as if the psycho hasn’t worn off. Almost short of breath as the steel latch of the door clicks, his excitement from watching Vulpes’ match reaching its summit.

The door swings open and Vulpes steps into the concrete room, the other contestants’ blood still wet across his hands and his face, dampening his crimson tunic. He wears the same look he had after killing the Gunner leader, that sort of intensity radiating from him. A wild gleam in his eyes, like that of a lamp burning itself out, the flame glowing its brightest and dancing most vividly as it consumes the last of its fuel.

Xavier wants to feel that inferno. Wants to be burned by it.

“A more satisfactory performance, I presume?” Says Vulpes, giving the machete a twirl before extending the reddened blade towards Xavier. His smirk and his voice are razor-sharp, “Perhaps you would like to try me yourself, now?”

There’s a beat, then Vulpes takes a challenging step forward. As if to test his resolve. But Xavier moves faster, pushing the blade aside and grabbing a fistful of Vulpes’ tunic.

“Maybe,” he grunts, shoving Vulpes back against the metal door. Intoxicated by the smell of copper and kerosine that emanates from him, cloaking him like a shroud.

The machete clatters to the floor, the sound bouncing loudly off steel and concrete.

“Do you think you’re a fair match for me,” taunts Vulpes, thrusting his chin upwards arrogantly, locking gazes with him. “Or is this how you venerate all of your most impressive gladiators.”

Rather than answer, Xavier brings his hand up and presses his fingers against Vulpes’ lips, the fresh blood there slick beneath his touch. He holds himself there, pressing closer to the flame, heat ebbing into him from the point of contact, working its way beneath his skin.

He can feel Vulpes smirk beneath his hand, before the man parts his lips and laves his tongue over Xavier’s fingertips, licking the blood from them, eyes drifting shut as though in ecstasy as he wraps his lips around the digits and takes them into his mouth.

The sensation shoots straight through Xavier, his breath hitching as Vulpes’ tongue rolls around his fingers before abruptly releasing them. Leaving him stunned, aching for more.

_Holy fuck._

Then Vulpes’ hands are clutching either of his arms, flipping the two of them so that Xavier is now backed against the door, the feel of the cool metal through his shirt serving as stark contrast to the blaze of Vulpes’ body against his. Warm breath against his skin as Vulpes leans into Xavier’s neck, and bites down hard on the exposed flesh there. Hard enough that a gasp gets tangled in Xavier’s throat.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he chokes out. And then Vulpes’ lips are against his, talking against his mouth.

“Do not speak, unless I grant you permission.”

He nods faintly, and Vulpes crushes their lips together with enough force to knock Xavier’s head back against the door. The sound permeating the concrete room, probably audible to anyone walking by outside the arena. The mouth against his own is soft, yet the movements are rough and demanding. Teeth nip impatiently at Xavier’s bottom lip until he yields, tasting blood and sweetness as Vulpes’ tongue claims him.

He groans into the kiss, hands slipping beneath Vulpes’ tunic so that he can trace the scars along his back, his fingers roaming along the smooth, raised trails that decorate him from shoulder to waist. They must have been deep gashes, worse than he had suspected when he got a look of them in the clinic. At the time he’d only seen them as long, white ghosts of very old wounds, now he can feel the pain they must have inflicted. Can feel the skill of whoever it was that put them there. It would take a practiced hand to leave such clean and unbroken marks.

More skilled than Gunners.

A hand curling in his hair pulls him from this thoughts, and then he’s shoved back hard against the door, sending another metallic thud echoing through the room. Vulpes severs the kiss, rolling his hips roughly against Xavier as he does so. Leaving Xavier gasping, almost pleading for more, now clawing into Vulpes’ shoulders. He rakes his nails downwards, earning a bitten-back grunt from Vulpes that makes him do it even harder, hard enough to no doubt leave deep red welts.

With his other hand, Xavier pulls Vulpes in for another kiss, hand on the back of his neck, flushed skin beneath his fingertips.

Growling against his mouth, Vulpes catches Xavier’s lip between his teeth again. Hard enough that he feels his split-lip reopen. This time he can’t help it when Vulpes pulls away, cursing under his breath through the pounding of his heart and the fire pooling low in his stomach. They shouldn’t be doing this here… Anyone could happen by, could see everything through the barred, glassless windows atop each door if they cared to look. Strangely, the thought only serves to stoke his excitement further.

The hand in his hair pulls taut and Xavier winces, arching beneath the feeling. It hurts. It feels good. “ _Yes,_ ” he whimpers. Pleading. Pathetic. And Vulpes then grips his aching erection through his pants, squeezing almost-painfully.  
  
“I did not say you could speak.”

“S-sorry.” He almost can’t help it. Can’t reign himself in. All his thoughts and inhibitions turning to ash as he’s swallowed by Vulpes’ flame.

“You are undisciplined,” Vulpes moves both his hands to unclasp Xavier’s belt, moving with methodical efficiency. “A regrettable trait for one who plays at being a soldier.”

Xavier swallows hard, opens his mouth and then closes it. He stares into Vulpes' face, seeking some direction, silently begging for something he’s not sure of. But the man’s eyes offer him nothing, reflecting only hunger and the steely light of the room around them.

“Fortunately for you, I have experience in such things,” purrs Vulpes, freeing Xavier’s cock from his jeans. He feels a cool, rough hand close around him and can’t stop himself from bucking his hips upwards, into Vulpes' palm. Whining through his gritted teeth.

Xavier tries to reciprocate the action, working a hand between them to fumble with the fastenings of Vulpes’ pants, but is roughly pushed away.

“No.”

“I want-”

Vulpes removes his hand from him, and Xavier arches upwards into the empty air, tightly wound, desperate for relief.

The look Vulpes gives him is like a void, cold and indifferent, “I don’t care what you want.” And Xavier’s entire body shudders, his already throbbing arousal twitching. This is a game he hasn’t played in a very long time. Not since-

A memory strikes him, like the heat flash from an explosion. Fooling around in the supply tent, him begging on his knees for Whit to let him come…

He licks his lips, cuts his eyes back up to Vulpes. “Please,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and muffled to his own ears.

There’s something incredibly self-satisfied in Vulpes’ smirk as he leans in, speaking against Xavier’s ear. “What was that?” Teeth on his skin once again, scraping along his neck. “Speak, you have my permission.”

Xavier bites his lip. “ _Please_ … touch me."

He can feel Vulpes’ smirk widening against his neck as he returns his hand to Xavier, stroking him lightly, teasingly. “Surely you can beg better than that.” Vulpes releases Xavier’s hair and grips his throat instead. Not restricting his breathing, but enough to hold him in place as he purrs into Xavier’s ear. “Part of discipline is knowing how to address your superior.”

Xavier’s hips buck upwards once again, seeking out more contact. More friction. “Please, sir.” He manages. “I want you.”

That seems to please Vulpes, judging by the heavy intake of breath he gives in reply, increasing pace, tightening his grip around Xavier’s throat just slightly. Apparently delighting in this. Getting off on making Xavier pliant beneath his touch, on owning every sensation that he feels. Taking every inch of that power, that control.

And so Xavier decides to give Vulpes what he wants. He licks his lips, slowly, and tentatively reaches for Vulpes’ belt again, looking up through his eyelashes. “I want to touch you, sir.” He says it so quietly, the words are almost just air.

There is just the slightest pause, before the reply comes.“Very well.”

Xavier fumbles with the fastenings of Vulpes’ pants, his hands ungraceful and uncooperative. A problem only made worse as Vulpes rubs his thumb over the tip of Xavier’s cock, slicking pre-come down his length, leaving his whole body shuddering, melting beneath Vulpes’ touch. He’s already close…

“Not until I say,” orders Vulpes, without breaking pace.

Xavier bites down a needy whine clawing its way out of his chest and focuses instead on forcing his hands to work properly. Finally managing to get the clasps on the front of Vulpes’ trousers unbuckled, then the zipper. Vulpes releases Xavier’s throat and then does the rest himself, exposing his cock and then rutting forcefully against him.

The contact leaves him swallowing down a scream, throwing his head back once again as Vulpes pushes his shirt up, trapping both their members between his hand and Xavier’s stomach, thrusting against him roughly.

“Is this what you wanted?” Asks Vulpes. Voice surprisingly breathy and muted.

“Yessir,” Xavier gasps. He’s barely holding on now, his eyes squeezed shut so hard he can see white bursts behind his eyelids. Vulpes’ other hand roams beneath his shirt, tracing the outline of Xavier’s own scars with feather-light touches, brushing softly over a nipple, making him shiver. Chills break out across his skin even as the searing pleasure of Vulpes’ cock against his threatens to burn him down…

His mouth falls open and he’s ready to start begging again, asking permission, but Vulpes speaks first.

“ _Now_.”

He falls to the command immediately. Teetering over the edge, lost to any other sensation as he rides out his climax. Unable to hear himself cry out past the roaring in his ears.

When he returns to himself, eyes drifting open once again, Xavier sees Vulpes step back, averting his gaze. Leaving Xavier cold and soaked, his knees threatening to buckle as he holds himself up against the door.

“Wait,” he says raggedly, as Vulpes begins to turn away. Xavier’s voice is barely audible, but it stops Vulpes mid-movement.

“Why.” Not a question. Vulpes' tone is curt, apparently unaffected by his own arousal as he motions to tuck himself back into his pants.  
  
Xavier reaches for Vulpes’ arm, gently pulling him back around. Face to face once again, he sees something strange has come over the man’s features. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, and Xavier leans in places a tentative kiss there. The action is not returned, but isn’t rebuffed either.

“Let me return the favor…” breathes Xavier, dipping his head to speak against Vulpes' neck. Placing another kiss there as his hand snakes its way down Vulpes’ body, feeling the fabric of his tunic beneath his touch until his fingers brush against the smooth, blunt flesh of his cock.

He feels Vulpes shake his head, and then runs his tongue along the base of the man’s throat. Tasting the thin sheen of sweat there, along with something else, something smokey. Vulpes shivers beneath him, reaching up and gripping Xavier by the shoulders.

“That won’t be necessary,” he murmurs.

Xavier slides to his knees, almost fluidly, having barely been holding himself up anyway. “I want to taste you,” he says, his voice low as he looks up. He settles his hand on Vulpes’ thigh, just inches away from the base of his twitching length, waiting for permission. “Please, sir.”

There’s a beat, then Vulpes offers him a terse nod, his breath hitching as Xavier’s lips brush against the head of his cock. Tongue venturing forward to lick Vulpes from tip to base, relishing in the musky taste, as well as the hands suddenly grasping for his hair again. That controlled composure so quickly giving in to an almost-careless fervor.

Xavier braces a hand against Vulpes’ thigh as he takes him fully in his mouth, feeling the muscles contracting beneath his touch. He flicks his eyes up, meeting that half-lidded gaze as he applies suction, watching Vulpes bite his bottom lip, muffling his whine.

The reactions he’s drawing from Vulpes have already got him half-hard again, but he ignores the throbbing of his own dick in favor of attending to the one in his mouth. Wanting to draw more of those delicious noises, to see if he can make him beg for more.

He squeezes the base of Vulpes’ cock, moving his hand in time with his his head as he bobs up and down, until he feels Vulpes shaking beneath him, his bitten-back gasps steadily growing louder as he thrusts into Xavier’s mouth, almost making him gag.

Xavier swallows around Vulpes’ cock, taking him deeper into his throat, urged onwards as he hears the other man cry out. When he looks up again, Vulpes’ lips are now parted, the bottom one bloodied, his face flushed and his eyes glassy. Xavier feels smugly satisfied, and then removes his hand and takes the entire length, all the way down to the base.

“ _Gods…"_ hisses Vulpes, one of his hands claws into the meat of Xavier’s shoulder, holding on for dear life. “ _In nomine sancte omnia…_ ”  
  
The words have no meaning to Xavier, though it sounds like… a prayer? He really can’t tell. Still, it sends a flash through his core and he takes himself in hand, squeezing his now achingly-hard cock. He’s not sure he’ll be able to finish twice, so he simply rides out the momentary pleasure of each stroke as he sucks Vulpes off, the increasing sounds spilling from the man like music to his ears.

His eyes slip shut and he lets himself get lost in the mixture of sensations, everything else fading into the background, not unlike the feeling Jet gives. Like being underwater, everything inside amplified as the above world ceases to exist…

Vulpes’ final, strangled gasp as he reaches his peak brings Xavier back to the surface. He milks every drop of the man's climax from him, sucking at the tip and reveling in the salty taste of it until he’s finally pushed away.

Still panting raggedly, Vulpes immediately adjusts his clothes, refastening his pants quickly. Xavier wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and does the same, looking up the whole while as Vulpes avoids his gaze.

By the time he manages to push himself back up to his feet, knees quivering beneath him, Vulpes is gone. The barred door leading out of the arena slamming loudly in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Note: "In nomine sancte omnia" - "In the name of all that is sacred"  
> Thank you again to hotot for beta-ing for me, as well as stitchcasual and beetle for the encouraging words.  
> Thank you to everyone who has left comments so far! You guys are the real MVPs here


	6. Inundate

A strange feeling comes over Vulpes as he steps through the door to the barracks. The creak of the floorboards beneath his feet and the familiarity of the main room helping to take his mind away from the filth clinging to his skin. The slickness of sweat along the back of his neck and the stiff, heavy feel of blood drying on his tunic.

Here he finds Sarge, apparently waiting for him. Seated at the kitchen table with a bottle of beer clasped in her leathery hand. She offers him a nod. “Nice fight.”

"Indeed, it was," Vulpes says, both in acknowledgement and agreement as he scans the room around him.

This is where he was held, on his arrival at Starlight. The bag over his head torn off, offering him the briefest glance around the sitting area, the kitchen, before he was dragged down a set of stairs and locked in a sparse, cold cage with the handful of Gunners. All of them chained in a line together. Vulpes had deeply savored the sight of their bound hands and the sound of their pleas for help, before the end. Before he had seen them parted from this world. A small fragment of glass discarded on the floor, cutting into his hands as he opened each of their throats. The recollection brings a smirk to his lips.

“You can help yourself to one of the rooms upstairs,” says Sarge, chasing the words with a swig of her beer. “Armory in the basement, ‘cross from the cells. Sparring room down the hall there,” she gestures to the corridor, directly across from the entrance, “There’s showers, too. Suggest you take advantage of ‘em.” She gives him an up and down look, scrutinizing him. “Looks like you crawled out of a disemboweled brahmin.”

Vulpes folds his arms, shifting beneath her scrutinizing gaze. “Noted.”

With that, he turns towards the hall, offering a curt nod in her direction as he strides off. The barracks is more spacious than he had realized. Large enough that it would easily shelter multiple contubernia. For all their dissolution, the residents of Starlight must at least be capable tradesmen, if their architecture is any indication.

He passes through the sparsely furnished sparring room —mostly empty save for some rugs on the floor, quarterstaffs and kevlar gloves scattered atop them— and through the first door he sees, counting paces as he walks.

The showers are a concrete room with drains in the floors. It appears more or less identical to a small bathhouse, benches around, piles of folded cotton rags to use for drying. Flagstaff once had numerous facilities like this. Perhaps still does.

Vulpes peels out of his leather pants, decides to leave his blood soaked tunic on so as to rinse it, and then moves to stand beneath one of the faucets. Hitting the switch and bracing himself for a blast of cold water.

He’s shocked when the water is hot, jumping slightly at the unexpectedness of it. Luxurious indeed. He watches the river of crimson pooling at his feet until it begins to run clear, then works himself out of the soaked tunic, tosses it back towards one of the benches in the center of the room.

The heated water stings at the shallow gash on his arm, and Vulpes smiles at the sensation. Envisioning his future rematch with that raider. At least Starlight offers him worthy opponents, a chance to hone his skills to what they had once been...

His eyes slip shut and he pushes his drenched hair back from his face, lingering a bit longer than is strictly necessary for being clean. It’s no wonder that Starlight appears to attract many patrons and gladiators alike. Easy money and rare luxuries seem to abound here. It’s not unlike Vegas in that regard. Xavier himself seems to be cut from that same cloth. He would not find it unbelievable to learn the man is an outsider, like himself. Perhaps a Chairman gone off on his own, blown by the desert winds all the way to the opposite coast.

It’s almost too easy to picture the man as a Chairman. All faux charm and some pre-war polish beneath his mask of grime and chems. Something that showed through with surprising clarity during their… interaction. Even obviously influenced by chems, Xavier was so— effortless. Anticipating what was desired of him without hesitation. Relinquishing himself while giving up nothing. _‘Let me return the favor’_. Vulpes presses his lips together at the memory, scrubbing at his face.

By the time he finally turns the water off, the room is filled with steam and Vulpes feels almost newly made. Like he is himself again for the first time since leaving Arizona. He wraps one of the cloths around his waist and then picks up his tunic, wrings it out above the drain and then hangs it over his shoulder, collecting his boots and his pants on the way out.

Sarge is no longer in the kitchen as he passes by, so he heads up the stairs, looking through each of the similar-looking rooms until he finally settles on one.

The room is far nicer than Vulpes had expected. He studies the furnishings as he dries himself. There is a window, red draped with the evening sun peeking through. A bookshelf and an armchair adjacent to the window, on the opposite side of the room from the bed. The floor is adorned with a rag rug of orange and crimson fabric. At the end of the bed is a footlocker, and then a dresser just beyond it. Places to store belongings that he does not have.

It’s not the Ultra-Luxe, but it’s certainly more tasteful than the majority of motels he has passed through since heading East. Vulpes almost finds it difficult to imagine staying here. Living with such needless comforts. Such things can make a person complacent, indulgent, as they were in Vegas. Driven to dissolution by their amenities and idleness.

But he is already dissolute now, isn’t he? Degenerated into the same species of base animal that occupies the rest of the wasteland. Doing what he must to survive. Lacking any higher purpose. The fact that fighting in the arena constitutes a rather elevated position compared to his existence for the past six years is nothing if not a testament to that.

Vulpes throws his tunic over the chair and slips back into his pants. Remaining in the middle of the room, standing barefoot on the rug. He glances over towards the bed, then decides to sit cross-legged on the floor instead.

He cannot completely decide what to make of this strange place that is not quite a raider town and not quite a peaceful city. Cannot decide what to make of its people, what to make of Xavier. The curious man who seems to exist in a void, not attached to the earth nor anyone else around him. Even inside of his arena, he stands as a ghost, lacking physical connection to his charge.

The only time he’s seen the man properly occupy reality was after the fight, in the corridor of the arena. Fist tangled in Vulpes’ tunic, demanding and forceful only to be reduced to whorish pleading and moaning beneath his touch. Vulpes shifts at the thought, brushes at a scuff mark on one of his boots. Realizing that they are filthy, caked with blood.

He retrieves the drying cloth and settles back down on the rug, carefully wiping the grime off his boots. Focusing on the task at hand instead of the lewd images flitting through his skull.

* * *

_  
Everything around him burns. His vision flickers white mixed with fragments of the past. Though it isn’t the past. Time has come undone, all of his life now tangled up as a single moment. Back in his village with his parents, with his brothers and sisters. Back with his instructor, face warmed by his praise as he performs a perfect deflection and counter-attack with his wooden sword. Back with his flesh shredded open, crusted with sand and stinging in the wind, in awe of his Lord, the might and the glow of Caesar looming above as he halts his execution._

_Back at the gallows. Staring up at Caesar’s head on the pike. Back in that raider town, the rain pelting against his face as the auctioneer crows at passing traders._

_Back to the present. Vice around his neck, his lips and his eyes are pins and needles. Seems like he should feel something, but he’s already too far gone..._

Vulpes sits upright in his chair, choking on oxygen. His throat hurts, and his head is spinning as if he truly had been on the brink of suffocation—

He shakes his head sharply, then leans over and puts his hands over his face. Stares at the blurry slivers of light coming from between his fingers as he breathes. Drawing one long breath after another, fighting back the dizziness. Going through the familiar motions of chasing off the ill effects brought by such dreams and memories.

Ten breaths later he feels himself begin to level out slightly, the ache inside his chest settling into numbness. Vulpes lowers his hands and then looks towards the window, squinting at the daytime light peeking through the drape. Surprised to find that it is already morning. He does not remember falling asleep, nor moving from the floor into the chair.

He rises and strides over to the window, and pulling the curtain to the side, taking in the view through the pristinely clean glass. Allowing it to chase away the remaining afterimages from his dream. The warm daylight feels strange against his skin as the numbness inside his chest spans outwards. Enveloping him.

The window faces towards the south edge of town, offering him a view of the scenery on the other side of the rear gate. There’s a small dirt path outside the gate, carving its way beyond the perimeter wall, through tufts of yellow and green grass. A convenient escape path, if needed. There doesn’t even appear to be any nearby turrets.

Although, he supposes that he no longer requires an escape route, now that he is employed here. Able to come and go as he pleases. The concept still seems slightly unreal. Disquieting, even.

He runs his fingers through his hair restlessly, scowling as he notes the length of it, then turns from the window, deciding to seek out Sarge as promptly as he can.

Hopefully she will have another match lined up for him this morning.

As he makes his way down the stairs, Vulpes finds himself unsurprised to see Xavier waiting for him. Leaning against the front door and smoking a cigarette as he chats to Sarge, who stands with her hands stuffed in the pockets of her duster. Looking not particularly interested in whatever it is Xavier is talking about.

The man makes a rather unimpressive image. It appears as though he slept in his clothes and his jacket, every item of fabric on him is wrinkled, disheveled. His long hair is even more tangled than it had been yesterday. An entire night later, and still he looks freshly fucked.

The thought sends a flash of heat along the back of Vulpes’ neck and he casts his eyes down at the floor for a moment, composing himself.

“Oh, hey!” Greets Xavier, looking past Sarge to offer Vulpes a wave as he approaches.

Vulpes looks up at Xavier, offering a tense smile in reply as he notes the man’s swollen lip, the violet stain raising the flesh of his left eye. Well-deserved. Well-received.

“Is there something you require?”

“He wants to fuck up my match schedule, is what he wants,” grunts Sarge, shaking her head as she moves to sit on the arm of one of the sofas. The wood groaning beneath her weight. “And you’re gonna tell him ‘no’.”

Vulpes raises an eyebrow at her, it sounds like an order. Strangely presumptuous, for her to give orders directly counter to the wishes of their employer.

These two have a strange tug of war, it seems. Xavier, disconnected but at the helm of the arena, Sarge, with her hands in everything but still operating begrudgingly beneath Xavier’s distant authority. Xavier should be choosing his subordinates more carefully. He may find them working against his interests.

“Give him a chance to hear me out before you tell him what to do eh?” Xavier offers Vulpes a long grin, “Also, I brought your weapons, you uh— left them behind. After the fight.” He waves a hand over towards the kitchen table, where Vulpes can see his pistol and his knife, as well as the machete, all carefully laid out.

“Gratitude,” says Vulpes. He stands a bit straighter.

“Figured you’ll need them, especially if you decide to come with me—” And Xavier clears his throat, starting his pitch. “We’d be heading to Goodneighbor. Lots of action there, dunno if you’ve been but, seems like your kinda place… Anyway, I’ve got some business to take care of there, and thought maybe you’d wanna come along?”

Goodneighbor. The name is familiar, but nothing more.

“An interesting thought,” Vulpes tilts his head, “For what reason would you require my accompaniance?”

Xavier swallows, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Uh, well. Word came down the line that there’s some raiders I might have to take care of. Probably could manage it on my own, but I don’t know how many there’ll be. And I’m a little short staffed right now…”

Vulpes actually huffs a faint laugh at that. How convenient. And how foolishly trusting. Apparently Xavier has fast gone from expecting Vulpes to attack him and flee the night, meriting the act of sedating him, to suddenly trusting him enough to escort him outside of city walls.

Unless of course he is lying. In which case Vulpes finds himself all the more curious as to his real motives.

“I’d pay you, of course!” Continues Xavier, and his eagerness is both striking, yet predictable. Vulpes almost pities him. This man is of so few allies, even in the city that he apparently presides over. Sarge’s attitude towards him makes that particularly apparent.

Vulpes raises a hand and waves away the request, even as he considers it. This is a good opportunity for him to work his way closer to Xavier, to gain more knowledge of the man and find the best use for him. It pays to have a finger wrapped around the strings of the man in charge, always.

“My payment for the last match will serve me sufficiently until I am granted another,” says Vulpes disinterestedly, watching Xavier’s face as he says it. The twitch of his eyes. A tic. One that tells him this will be even easier than expected.

“C’mon, I know you’d rather see some action instead of sitting around here until your next fight,” says Xavier. “Goodneighbor’s great, I could even introduce you to the mayor, he’s a close personal friend—”

Sarge snorts at that, gives her head a shake. Vulpes narrows his eyes, glancing between the two of them.

Xavier rushes on, “We probably could get you some good armor there, too. Seems like you’re in need of some.”

Vulpes tilts his eyes upwards, presses his lips together. Going through all the motions of considering something against his better judgement. Allowing silence to draw taut between them before he finally gives his answer, “I suppose,” he says laboriously. “It would not be too inconvenient to accompany you.”

“It’s inconvenient for me,” snaps Sarge, rolling up to her feet. She glowers at Vulpes, then at Xavier. “I’m keepin’ one hundred percent on his next fight, X. To make up for the profit I’m losing out on tomorrow.” And without another word, she shoulders past Xavier and out the door. Slamming it behind her.

When Vulpes looks back to Xavier, he finds him grinning. Apparently not affected by Sarge’s exit.

“Great!” Xavier chirps. “We can leave as soon as you’re ready! We’ll deal with the raiders and I’ll give you a grand tour of the city. Should be fun.”

Fun. Vulpes smirks at that. Indeed, ridding the world of a few more raiders should promise to be somewhat enjoyable. Even in poor company.

* * *

  
Vulpes casts a look upwards, at the overcast sky, then at the fog sprawling ahead of them, making the highway fade off into nothingness. “You seem to have chosen a less than ideal day for this journey.”

Xavier glances sidelong at him, cocks his head, “Bit of rain never hurt anyone. Lighten up a bit. Try and enjoy the walk.”

“Walking is an activity of necessity, not one of enjoyment.”

“Alright. So that’s a ‘no’ to lightening up?” Xavier tilts his head, “C’mon, you have to enjoy something besides fighting. Like, nature? Radio? Something.”

“I enjoy silence,” says Vulpes, offering a deadpan look over at the man, “Something I find sorely lacking when I am in your presence.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” says Xavier. “I’m about to give you a proper tour of the Commonwealth. Since you’re very clearly not from around here.”

The observation draws tension into Vulpes shoulders, “What leads you to believe that?”

“Seriously?” Xavier lifts a brow at him, “You don’t exactly blend in around here. If you weren’t so rough around the edges I’d think you were some kinda vaultie—”

“Says the man with a pip-boy on his arm,” notes Vulpes, vaguely offended at the notion that he is somehow more out of place than Xavier.

Xavier waves a hand dismissively, “Found it on some dead fucker,” he says. “Didn’t realize how valuable it was at the time. Probably lucky, or I would’ve sold it.”

Vulpes doesn’t buy that for a moment, but offers no retort. Better not to give the man more excuses to run his mouth.

However, it appears Xavier needs no excuse for his babbling. He continues to ramble as they proceed onwards. Describing the route they will take, and then meandering into talking about the trees, the various wildlife and people that are common along this road. Vulpes halfway pays attention, aurally skimming the man’s words for anything relevant, while also keeping track of any notable landmarks around, taking stock of anywhere that looks recently occupied.

Vulpes has not yet had much opportunity to explore the Commonwealth. Not as a free man. Not without Gunners looming over him at all times. The extent of his travels so far have taken him through the irradiated plain to the South and limited, direct paths through the ruins. Aside from working his way closer to Xavier, this trip will also serve purpose in allowing him to map out this grim, desolate area.

They walk for only an hour or two before the sky breaks open and unleashes a torrent of ice cold rain, leaving Vulpes soaked through his clothes within moments. Arms folded against the chill, their pace noticeably beginning to slow as the minutes tick onwards and the water forms into pools along the concrete, mud washing up from the edges of the road to impede their steps.

“We should stop, take a rest for a bit,” says Xavier, nodding towards an abandoned gas station up ahead of them. Almost completely obscured by the sheet of rain.

“As you wish,” says Vulpes, privately grateful for the suggestion. His knees ache of the cold, each step a reminder that his endurance is not what it used to be. That he has decreased in efficiency.

There is an open garage in the gas station, and they seat themselves on the concrete floor inside. Sheltered from the persistent rain and the harsh breeze. Xavier pushes his soaking wet hair off his face, and Vulpes folds his arms and draws his knees up, wishing for a fire.

“It’s not much further,” says Xavier, studying his pip-boy, rolling one of the dials with his thumb. “Probably another two hours, at most.” He looks sideways at Vulpes, tilts his head, “You cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“We can wait out the rain for a while, if you want.”

Vulpes nearly refuses, but then draws tighter into himself. He despises the cold. The damp. Living in the Commonwealth is like being trapped underground. Frozen and suffocating. It’s a miracle anything grows here, that anyone lives here.

“Alright.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got something to help us kill the time.” And with that, Xavier produces a small bottle of pills from inside his jacket. A mischievous smile pulling at his lips as he looks at Vulpes.

Outside, the light patter of the rain has progressed into a loud roar, cancelling out the echo of their voices. Leaves him feeling as though they are suspended in time, enveloped in white noise and the thin scent of dust from the garage.

Vulpes eyes the bottle in Xavier’s hand, then looks back out at the muddy ground dissolving beneath the opaque downpour.

“I am content to sit and wait,” he says quietly.

“This’ll warm you up,” Xavier insists, scooting closer until Vulpes can feel his leg against his own. “Be a lot funner to watch the rain too.”

Without knowing why, Vulpes takes the bottle. Eyeing the man as he does so.

The label on the bottle is hand-printed, reading “Day-tRipper’ in janky, uneven scrawl. For a moment, he considers tossing it away, out into the mud, just to see Xavier’s reaction.

But, another part of him is curious. Feels some strange enticement as he holds the bottle in his hands. He shakes it gently, listening to the pills rattle inside. It does not sound like there are many.

“What does it do?” Asks Vulpes, studying the lid. There’s a line carved in the plastic.

“Why don’t you try some, find out for yourself,” says Xavier playfully.

“It is not similar to jet, is it?”

A quizzical look passes over Xavier’s face, before he rearranges his features. Grinning reassuringly. “Not even close. Sweeter trip, less intense.”

Vulpes taps a finger against the side of the pills, weighing them on a baseless scale. Despite himself, he is curious. It is not unlike the feel of holding a gun, knowing the power it has. Pull the trigger and see what happens.

Pull the trigger, take away the pain. Or take another’s life into your hands.

What harm could it do? To experiment. And, if it serves to gain even another inch of Xavier’s trust…

Then it is justifiable.

“How much... ?” Asks Vulpes, snapping the lid off the bottle. The pills inside are smaller than expected, oval shaped and green. Like a cat’s eye. There can’t be more than five of them.

Xavier reaches out and carefully takes the pills, emptying them into his hand before tossing the bottle aside. “Not a lot, for you,” he picks up a single pill between the thumb and forefinger of his opposite hand. “You gotta swallow them, though. Not like mentats.”

Vulpes nods, “You first.”

With a grin, Xavier tips the one handful of pills into his mouth, throws his head back as he swallows. Then he drops the remaining pill into Vulpes’ hand.

Vulpes looks at it for a moment, and then follows suit, a slight thrill going through him. The trigger clicks. Perhaps it is an act of poor judgement, though that seems unlikely. His own judgement is the sole thing that he can invariably place trust in.

The seconds tick by, and Vulpes finds himself buzzing with anticipation. Unsure if it is working. Or how he will know when it is. Unsure how much time has passed, if it feels longer due to simply waiting.

Thankfully, he does not have to wait for too long. Just as his impatience begins to climb, the stream of his thoughts change course, falling out of alignment with his surroundings, everything disconnecting from him for a moment before he begins to feel altered. His awareness of the cold and the metallic patter of raindrops along the roof overhead falls away just enough to no longer be noticeable as he is cast adrift along the current.

It is pleasant, the high. Mild, as promised, but building at an acceptable pace. The edges of Vulpes’ vision blur with colors, a spectrum of subtle blues and greens and violets, making the dull garage look like a tapestry. Enticing. Changing with every turn of his head.

Beside him, Xavier chuckles quietly, “How’re you feeling?”

When Vulpes speaks, the words feel strange, echoing in his chest, “It is. Interesting.”

He does find it odd how unchanged Xavier seems. Surely he must be feeling the same effects, but there is almost no apparent difference in his demeanour. None of what Vulpes sees or feels seems to be reflected on the other’s face, even as he searches for it.

“Are you— affected?” Vulpes finds himself asking, not having intended to say anything, the words finding their own way from his lips without his interference.

Xavier nods. “Probably less’n you are. Acquired tolerance.”

The roar of the rain carries on outside, and when Vulpes focuses on it, it can almost be tuned into a message. Whispering if he listens hard enough, though he cannot make out specific words. There’s a strange rhythm to it, though. Something soothing. He leans his head back against the crumbling cement wall.

“So, tell me somethin’,” says Xavier. Interrupting the words inside of the rain.

Vulpes ignores him a moment. Doesn’t open his eyes. Able to see more soft patterns, subtly flashing, careful tendrils of light reaching through the darkness.

“Why’d you end up joining?” Xavier continues, “The arena, I mean. Why’d you sign on as a gladiator when— Well, you don’t exactly strike me as the type to change your mind—”

“Am I not skilled enough?” Asks Vulpes. The patterns twist as he speaks, flowing in another direction. “Did you not trouble yourself to see that I would remain?”

“Doesn’t mean I thought you actually would. Most people like you. Fighters. They’ve already got a cause, a group they’re with. Skill doesn’t just come from nowhere...”  
  
Vulpes finally cracks an eye open, but the patterns stay. A soft, aura of crimson between his eyes and the puzzled look on Xavier’s face. “So you are assuming I must have previous loyalties that will conflict with your operation?”

“I dunno, do you?” Xavier fumbles at the inside pocket of his jacket, produces his pack of cigarettes and sparks one up. The flash of the lighter and the burning end leave vivid trails cutting through Vulpes’ patterned vision. “Did seem to have a pretty personal beef with those Gunners. You on opposite sides of something?” He slips the pack back into his pocket.

Vulpes blinks a few times, all the colors scattering for a moment. “To the contrary,” he says, “I was under their employ, for a time.”  
_  
"Their employ_?” Xavier tilts his head, unsteady fingers of smoke curling around his words. Twisting through the space between them. “Hell of a way to tender your resignation.”

“It was deserved.”

“Not doubting that,” says Xavier. “Gunners run a shit business. Mercs that don’t hold to a standard. Treat their own people as bad as their marks… Does make me wonder how you ended up with ‘em though.”

The beryl threads from the cigarette trace alongside Vulpes’ thoughts, the many different arteries that had bled him into taking the smallest cut for petty mercenary work. “It simply happened,” he says. “As things do.”

“Hm.” Xavier stares at him for a moment, takes another pull of his cigarette. Tracers of the blue smoke reflecting off the dark of his pupils. “How do I know you’re not gonna do the same to me? Turn around, stab me in the back when you feel it’s deserved.”

“When you hold someone’s life in your hands, it is expected that they may wish to see you undone for it.” Vulpes looks down at his own hands, red scars bleeding up into the red cloth around his wrists.

He no longer feels bitter resentment clawing at him over the matter of his first fight. Yet, he would be still be within his rights to kill Xavier for it. That is the cost of such business, the cost of leadership.

“Kinda ominous eh? But, fair enough I s’pose...” Xavier flicks ash from his cigarette, takes a long drag. “Still haven’t answered my question though. ‘Bout why you joined.”

When Vulpes looks up again, he notices that the patterns have now become faded. A mere whisper against the backdrop of gray, catching at the corners of Xavier’s passive grin.

“I sense that is not the question you desire to ask.”

That stirs some reaction, leaves Xavier’s eyebrows climbing as he exhales a startled stream of smoke. “And what do you think I wanna ask?”

Vulpes shrugs, offers no answer. It is not for him to take charge of others’ curiosities, not his concern if Xavier is left to wonder because he cannot articulate his questions. Besides, even if the man should find enough nerve to speak plainly, Vulpes has no answer he is willing to offer. Answers are currency, and currency must be traded only when strictly necessary.  
  
Another shiver from the cool wracks through his bones, Vulpes pulls knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them.  
  
They sit in silence for a time, and Vulpes’ mind trails back to the diminishing rise-and-drop inside of his head. Watching the faint colors now reflecting brightly against the rain outside, creating twinkling lights. Like the sign over Freeside. When he blinks, he can see the sign in his mind’s eye with such clarity that it is like travelling back through time and across a thousand miles.

Of all the things he would expect to feel longing for, he would never have counted anything in Freeside to be among them.

“Want a drag?” Asks Xavier. And Vulpes feels a twist of annoyance as the voice sends his memories scattering into mist. He looks and sees the burning stub of the cigarette extended towards him, the smoke stinging at his eyes.

“No.”

“Mm alright,” Xavier takes one final puff, then snuffs out the smoke on the floor beside his boot. He shifts beside Vulpes, still shoulder to shoulder, heat emanating from him like an aura of crimson and gold. “So, tell me something else then—”

“Do you ever cease talking?” He frowns over at the man. Finding him staring up at the roof.

“I try not to,” chuckles Xavier, flicking his eyes down at Vulpes. “It beats sitting in silence.”

“I’m inclined to disagree.”

Xavier nudges him with his shoulder, “C’mon, even chems don’t make you lighten up? Jeeze...”

“Chems are for degenerates.” Again the words arrive of their own accord. Untactful. Unwanted. Yet he finds it difficult to care or regret them.  
  
“That so?” A glint of amusement in the man’s eyes, breaking through the patterns. Brow drawing up as if in comprehension. “Well, guess you ‘n me are a couple of degenerates then.”

“Your slatternly behavior yesterday was certainly proof of that.”

“Sure didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

Vulpes’ thoughts spark for a moment, ignited by friction as his desire to retort collides with his recollection of the previous day’s interlude. He narrows his eyes at Xavier but the waves crashing over him make it difficult to orient himself as he requires. It is unfair, his grasp coming and going while Xavier’s remains the same, it’s as if Vulpes is still in the arena, looking up at him on the podium. Towering above.

Xavier smirks at him and it seems exaggerated. A trick of the light, perhaps. He leans towards Vulpes, his words like smoke against his ear. “Did you dream of me after? Be hones—”  
  
Another flash of irritation intensifies the sparks into a blaze, and Vulpes roughly seizes Xavier’s jaw, nails digging into his flesh as he devours his words in a kiss.

If this is the only way to silence the man, so be it.

A tiny, muffled sound of protest breaks between their lips and Vulpes presses his tongue into the other’s mouth. Tasting tobacco, like heat and ash from a campfire. It should be unpleasant but instead it drives him forward, pressing deeper, embers beneath his fingertips as his hands find their way along Xavier’s chest, working inside of his jacket.

He had nearly forgotten his intoxication, but the wash of sensation seems to return it to him with full force. Searing into him like a brand, setting his nerves alight as he breathes smoke and savors soft skin and scar tissue, brushing a thumb along the edge of Xavier’s collarbone as he draws back from the kiss, just enough to regain his breath.

Absent any intent, he finds himself crawling into Xavier’s lap. Feeling swept up by the current. He mindlessly works his hands beneath the hem of Xavier’s shirt, his palms against bare flesh almost like a euphoria of itself. Such basic contact and it is more gratifying than climax. Warmth and motion and energy all roiling up against his skin.

When he flicks his gaze back up to the other’s face, he finds Xavier is watching him, looking quite at ease. His eyes are glassy, his smile crooked, but aside from that he still seems almost unaffected. His face does not align with the degree of twisting elation that Vulpes feels curling inside his stomach. And he wants it to.

He leans forward, clumsily pressing their mouths together again, bites Xavier’s bottom lip before he starts moving along his jaw. Carefully making his way down to the other’s neck, sucking a trail into his skin until he feels a response. Until Xavier’s hands tighten around his hips and he can feel the vibration of a subdued moan ride through both of their chests.

And he wants more. Wants the man to feel what he feels. It was simple the other day, to follow along with what he knew was desired of him. Another role to slip into, a set of reactions to don. This is different. Now he has to anticipate, like choosing the correct type of bait for an unknown fish. He tangles his fingers in Xavier’s shirt, the fabric so threadbare it feels like a cloud. Then he closes in for another kiss, losing himself in the warmth and the motion of it all before they are abruptly parted once again.

“You sure about this?” Breathes Xavier, the words are warm against Vulpes’ face. Spoken so quietly he can barely hear over the sound of his own heartbeat.

“I know what I’m doing,” he says, trying to keep his voice passive, even as a flash of irritation bristles at his skin. An asinine question. As if he does anything without first being sure. No amount of profligate chems could alter that fact.

Xavier goes still, meeting Vulpes’ gaze. His eyes are now sharp and filled with intent, not fully cancelled out by the doe-eyed look produced by his widened pupils. “Not sure I do— know what you're doing, that is.”

Vulpes stares dispassionately up at him for a moment, trying not to be distracted by the still-shifting colors in his periphere, “Don’t you?” He asks flatly, tilting his head to recapture Xavier’s mouth.

But, apparently insistent on being difficult, Xavier shoves Vulpes away, holding him at arm’s length.

“Am I not desirable?” Asks Vulpes, bordering on agitated now. He has never encountered this problem before.

"People tend to be more desirable when they're not manipulating you," says Xavier.

Vulpes withdraws slightly, taken aback. Unsure of how to respond.

The storm is the only sound between them for a long moment, and he settles back down onto the floor, across from Xavier now. Already feeling the cold crawling back into him. He shivers.

“If I were manipulating you,” he says. Struggling to speak clearly. “You would not be aware of it.” It is true, he should not be aware of it. If he has been manipulating so far, it has been so passive that it can almost not be called that... Perhaps that has been his error. He should be guiding more carefully. Doing more.

But what? He knows nothing about this man. Except that he is alone, and that companionship is a simple enough need to satisfy. Fulfilling a need is usually enough to gain leniency, to be useful, to have security. Perhaps it is not so here. Perhaps captivity has robbed him of his talent.

“Maybe you’re not really that good at it,” Xavier stares off past him, looking with faint amusement out at the storm. The twinkling lights catching inside of his eyes as he does so.

Vulpes’ mouth falls open, and he quickly shuts it. Frowning at the audacity. A rude statement, and yet one that serves purpose. To disagree would be to incriminate himself, to stake the claim that he is in fact a highly proficient manipulator. To agree would be deriding his own skillset, a blow to his pride that cannot be tolerated.

Even bogged down with chems, it seems the man is not quite an idiot after all. Vulpes opts for silence, unwilling to play into Xavier's hands. Instead he returns his attention to the rain beating against the mud outside, unrelenting.

The quiet beckons the return of the voices whispering inside of the storm. Vulpes folds his arms over his chest, fending off the pervasive chill as he listens. Still unable to make out any words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after several drafts and 2 rewrites this I'm finally Done with this. Thank you to hotot and beetle and ringadingding for your input and help on this chapter! And thank you to everyone who has left comments, I live for and appreciate your feedback <3


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